


Kinktober Fics

by babydraco



Category: Historical RPF, Reign (TV), The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Against a Wall, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Ballet, Begging, Bisexual Male Character, Bondage, Christmas, Costumes, Cousin Incest, Cuckolding, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, F/M, Female!James, Femdom, Frottage, Half-Sibling Incest, Halloween, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Incest, Infidelity, Kinktober, Lapdances, Laughter During Sex, Lingerie, M/M, Male!Mary, Maledom/Femsub, Masks, Mirror Sex, Pegging, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Period-Typical Underage, Power Imbalance, Prostitution, Public Sex, Religious Conflict, Rimming, Rule 63, Scars, Sex Toys, Shower Sex, Size Difference, Spanking, Subdrop, Threesome, Under-negotiated Kink, Unrequited Love, exhibtionism, handjobs, male!Elizabeth I, male!Mary Tudor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-01-07 22:29:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 45,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12241845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babydraco/pseuds/babydraco
Summary: Short  multifandom  fics   from theKinktober  list,  typically one kink per fic.Pairings and  fandoms and  tags  will be added as they become  relevant.





	1. Disloyal (Reign  63!verse,  Mary/James,    Spanking)

**Author's Note:**

> CONTENT NOTE: The half sibling incest (between consenting adults in their twenties) is only in chapters 1, 3, and 16. Since this is an anthology, a lot of the stories are self contained and you don't need to read 1, 3 or 16 to understand any of the other fics. The cousin incest is in chapters 6 and 7 (but is based on a story in which people really did occasionally marry their cousins, this is just set in an AU where *different* sets of cousins marry than did in real life). 
> 
> In this version of my sprawling Rule 63 verse, that controversial Reign season 2 plot arc did happen to King Malcolm (male!Mary Stuart) but he never told anyone and handles it badly by following King Henri's advice and seducing Isobel (female!James Earl of Moray) to try to restore his battered masculinity. He is unaware she has genuine feelings for him. We now join them after Malcolm has returned to Scotland to take his throne. He plans to punish Isobel for lying to him about Reverend Knox. 
> 
> And that's what you missed on AUs of AUs.
> 
> (these versions are slightly darker than the main AU verse)

_How could she?_ Malcolm fumed as he stormed down the corridor towards his sister's rooms. How could she have learned what Knox was capable of and stay silent? How could she know who was responsible for Lachlan's death and _hide that from her king, her own brother?_ He didn't wait to be announced this time, but stormed in and barked “Leave us!” at the maid who was helping Isobel undress. The maid hurried away, but with a troubled and protective expression, she had been in Lady Moray's service since Isobel was a teenager suffering under a cruel husband, and she must think Malcolm intended to harm his sister. She was also helpless to do anything about it. Malcolm tried to make his voice softer and his posture less threatening, he refrained from blocking the door. He was in a temper but he was not a brute.

Malcolm swallowed. When he'd stormed in, the maid had immediately held Isobel's robe in front of her mistress and Isobel was clutching it to herself now. She was otherwise wearing nothing but a half laced corset. With all her experience, he hadn't expected Isobel to blush, and she wasn't. She just stared at him cooly while he tried to look at anything other than the womanly curves barely hidden by that useless barrier. He wanted to stay angry. He wanted to punish her. 

“May I put on my nightgown, Your Highness?” She snapped. He turned his back while she did so, admiring her ability to make 'your highness' sound like 'you idiot'. 

“You knew Knox was the one behind my friend's death,” Malcolm said. “You keep lying to me, and hiding your motivations. I want you to stay as an adviser, I want to forgive you, but I can't trust you. Isobel, you need to prove your loyalty and pay for what you've done.”

“What do you want?”

“If I punish you now, we can just move on, and not-not let it fester,” he replied. He gently maneuvered her toward the bed as he talked. She let him, even though her forehead wrinkled with suspicion. She put up the ghost of a struggle when he bent her forward on the mattress and pushed her nightgown up over her hips. 

“No,” he said firmly. He felt a bit guilty at the real fear in her eyes and even worse when she slowly, with resignation but obviously instinctively, spread her legs. She thought he was going to-and she was _trained to let him._ The strangers who had broken into his home and shamed him had only done so for a few hours, and fled. Within a month he'd tracked them all down and exacted bloody revenge. She had been put through that experience repeatedly for years by someone she was legally bound to, who had promised to protect and care for her. “I don't do that. I wouldn't.”

“I know,” she said in the embarrassed mumble of someone who hadn't known that at all. He pushed her thighs together, and rested a hand on her lower back to hold her in place as he brought one palm down on her right arse cheek. It wasn't that hard, but he heard a tiny surprised gasp. And another when he repeated the slap on her left cheek. And again and again. He tried, and failed, not to be distracted by her body. Isobel had the arse of his dreams, not in any way oversized or fat but bigger, wider and rounder than his wife's, which Francoise had jealously pointed out. She was both soft and firm, with sprays of tiny faint freckles on both cheeks. He wondered how she'd managed that, being sunkissed in a place which didn't see the sun. Her skin was warm and pink now, exactly as if she had a mild sunburn. He tried increasing the pace and strength of the blows and was rewarded with unhappy grunts and whimpers and she hid her face in pale dainty hands when he discovered that if he struck from underneath, he could make her whole bottom bounce. 

Why was the room so uncomfortably hot? And he was supposed to be teaching her a lesson about lying to her king, and being a willful and untrustworthy and disobedient little snake...

His hand brushed the apex of her legs and came away damp. Come to think of it, she was doing a lot more moaning than crying. Her bottom was so hot and so red he'd feared he'd gone too far, he had no experience in this. Soon, Malcolm found his slaps had turned into caresses, and rubbing, fingers slipping in and out of her _chatte_. His trousers felt so tight, he unlaced them with his other hand and pulled his cock out. It accidentally brushed the back of her thigh. 

“ _Oh, hello there_ ,” Isobel murmured, smirking to herself. Since he wasn't spanking her or even trying to hold her in place anymore, she rolled over and sat up, hissing quietly as her rear made contact with the sheets. Isobel reached for his cock, gently playing with it. 

“Excuse me,” Malcolm said, glancing down between them. He was gone already, putty in expert hands. 

“We're getting reacquainted,”Isobel said. “We haven't seen each other in awhile.”

“Do you want?” He didn't actually know how to ask in English, and he couldn't live with himself if she ever felt forced. Isobel nodded, breathing hard, she parted her thighs, and with a small hand wrapped around his hot, hard member, she took him into her body. She was so warm, and wet, for some reason driven wild by what had just happened between them. He dragged her closer by the hips, pressing his face in her breasts and thrusting mindlessly to the sound of her squealing and whimpering, desperate to lose himself in her. He barely heard Isobel when she began punching him on the arm and crying “Pull out! Pull out!”

He was loving being inside her so much that he barely made it, but a pregnancy was the last thing either of them needed, he spilled himself on her nightgown instead. Malcolm fell forward on his palms, Isobel flopped backward on the bed. 

“I need to know I can trust you, that you're not continuing to keep my enemies under your protection,” he said after a minute or two. 

“And this is how you find out?” Isobel asked. “Seems to me this required more trust on _my_ part. Maybe you just find rough sex with me exciting. After all, you can't do this with your wife, she's so little and breakable.”

Malcolm fastened his trousers, pulling himself together with some attempt at dignity. 

“Watch yourself.”

“Don't be embarrassed, men always come to me for things they can't do with their wives.”

He looked back at her, with her tearstained face, smears of melted kohl around her eyes, dark hair disheveled, one breast exposed in a nightgown sprayed with his come. Normally the ultimate picture of poise and control, now a pathetic mess who had been put in her place. It was obviously going to be a difficult adjustment for her, going from the regency to having a king again, but this was a lesson she'd needed to learn. 

“But next time you want to beat me,” she said, “ask my permission first.”

“There isn't going to be a next time, I think we understand each other now and I'm not going to have any more trouble from you.”

As he closed her bedroom door on his way out, something that was probably a shoe slammed into it from the other side. 

Isobel curled up, sore, and used and abandoned, and wept into a pillow. Malcolm was wrong, they didn't understand each other _at all_.


	2. Clean  (James/Bothwell,  bathtub/shower,  laughter during sex,  frottage, rimming)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story behind that weird look that passed between them at the end of Uncharted Waters. Or rather, what happens after.
> 
> Wow, this is just straight up m/m and also almost totally vanilla. I think it's been awhile since I wrote that. I'm falling behind, so I'm throwing multiple kinks into some fics.

“Lord Moray!' Bothwell strode quickly after the queen's brother, who seemed in quite the hurry to put distance between them. Moray stopped in a more private corridor, his shoulders set angrily. 

“I told you not to come back to court.”

“The queen invited me. I believe you're now outranked in this decision.” Bothwell stepped closer, touching Moray's arm carefully. “I don't mean to make you uncomfortable. You don't like me, I know.”

Moray turned around, smirking. 

“You're not that important.”

“I didn't tell her the whole truth,” Bothwell said. He slowly backed Moray into the wall, surprised when Moray allowed this, he usually had to deal with more insistent denial first. “And I'm not going to. She thinks it was nothing more than your attempt to get rid of anyone too loyal to her mother. The truth doesn't make me look any better than you.” 

“Yes, it does,” Moray said. “It doesn't count for you.”

Oh. Well, he was somewhat right. Bothwell could afford the dents in his reputation, he was in an advanced state of no longer caring, but Moray could not, and he'd always preferred to operate under the guise of being a good boy. He wanted to be seen playing by the rules even if he did know how to twist them to his advantage. And by the rules of masculinity, and of the culture of men who found other men attractive, Moray was the one with something to be embarrassed about. At least from the point of view of people who didn't understand what it meant to truly love a man. They had not been together in order for one of them to prove their dominance, or to make a parody of a husband and wife. They were nearly equal in age, size, and social position, and they had been friends since before they knew what was between their legs could serve more than one purpose. And the truth was, they rarely played power games in bed either. All partners had their own rhythm, his and Moray's had been discovered after years of awkward experimentation in fitting their bodies together. Those private choices didn't deserve to be ripped open for public judgment, so maybe Moray had been right to try and protect their secret by shutting Bothwell out. He had a right to protect himself. 

Moray's eyes were big, his plush lips parted as he reached for Bothwell and yanked him closer to pull him into a desperate kiss. He was capable of putting on a performance, but this time it seemed genuine. The fire may have been banked, but it clearly still burned. Bothwell sighed in relief, they may have been almost social equals, but as a quasi royal, Moray still had more power, if Bothwell had made the first move and it had been unwanted, Moray could have _destroyed_ him. Encounters tended to proceed at Moray's pace and in the manner he chose, the tomcat did still have his claws. 

With a shift of position, Bothwell felt a hardness pressing against his leg. That was fast. Poor man was allowed only women as a vice these days, and girls were wonderful but they couldn't offer something so specifically male as one hard, sensitive cock rubbing against another one until you both reached that ecstatic peak. 

“Missed me, hmm?” he asked, pushing his thigh in between Moray's legs, rubbing their stiff cocks together through their clothes. He hitched Moray up, and closer, until his toes would have been brushing the floor if he was a smaller man. He wasn't, so it was a little awkward. Bothwell put his own burst of extra strength down to the adrenaline of arousal and ignored the annoyed,confused huff. 

“Uh. No. M-maybe.” More than maybe, his former friend was grinding against him with an urgency that matched Bothwell's own, shaking like a leaf underneath him as he twitched in his trousers and let out a soft,shuddery sigh. Moray turned around toward the wall without being asked, never let it be said he was a selfish lover, and Bothwell wrapped an arm around his waist for leverage while he rode out his own orgasm against the other man's firm arse in a simulation of what he really wanted to do. 

“I want you naked, in my bed,” he breathed. “Or your bed, not picky.”

“I can't, I have duties to attend to before Mary's wedding,” Moray replied, reluctantly starting to push him away. 

“Please tell me one of those jobs involves getting rid of the groom,” Bothwell murmured against his shoulder. Moray's beard scratched his cheek.

“I wish, but no. Come to me after.”

“After.”

After, when the halls of the castle and the streets outside were filled with drunken revelers and party music and miles outside the city, fireworks were going off in the sky. The queen had, thank God, canceled any viewing of the consummation. Bothwell had gone to stare up at her window until she caught him at it and he remembered he had something approaching self respect. Lord Moray's rooms were quiet though, the party noises were muffled. 

Lord Moray, or James, he could be called that behind closed doors, was in the bath. The steam generated by the hot water exaggerated the curls in his hair and made him look like a naughty choirboy, perfect for the darling of the Scottish Reformation who was also attempting to get fucked by another man. 

“James.”

“James. I'd ask you to join me but we wouldn't both fit.” James said this with his eyes half closed, as Bothwell approached and began to strip out of his own clothing. 

“You look exhausted,” he commented. 

“I've had a hell of a 24 hours,” James said. “Don't make me talk about it.”

“Wasn't going to. Can I ask if it's serious between you and Lady Castleroy, though?”

“I don't know,” James admitted. “I'd like it to be. There are things she doesn't know about me which might drive her away if she found out. Something my sister has ordered me to do, that I think Lady Castleroy would hate me for and I can't bear that.”

“You think she's your last chance.”

“She might be?” James smiled faintly up at him and then kicked water at him. Bothwell caught his foot and planted several kisses on it. “She's the woman I never thought I'd actually meet. She is beautiful, and kind, unique, intelligent, strong and she doesn't let me get away with anything.”

James would rather talk about the woman he liked than address the fact that he was being made love to, and that was fine. Neither man could have the one they really wanted tonight, Bothwell mused as he kissed and massaged his way up James's leg. The tip of the other man's above average cock, flushed with the heat, made a cautious appearance above the waterline, and James snickered. 

“I went ahead and started on my own, in hopes you'd come,” James said. 

“With luck and skill, we'll both come,” Bothwell said, to which James rolled his eyes. In revenge, Bothwell took James in his mouth, licking and sucking at his hardness, then pulling off just as James began to breathe harder. He kissed down the underside of the shaft, over and around his balls, and holding James by the hips, lifted his entire lower half above the water. He was struck for just a moment, distracted by the water glistening on the muscles of the other man's chest and stomach. 

“What are you _doing_?” James asked. 

“I want you ready, it's been awhile, for you, I think,” Bothwell said. “Remember to breathe.” He bent his head again, kissing that pink, soapy pucker, flicking it gently with his tongue until it fluttered under his touch.

“I don't need you to tell me to breathe,” James said. “You make me sound like an idiot.”

“I just meant, try to relax.” But James started laughing at the way Bothwell's mouth tickled the sensitive skin down there and Bothwell began to laugh too, and it turned into a vicious cycle for at least three minutes. Bothwell was the first to get back under control, he had a job to do after all. And soon he had James moaning hotly as he was insistently worked open. 

“I nghhh I want to move to the b-to the bed,” James gasped. He lifted himself out, and allowed Bothwell to watch him take his time patting himself dry and slowly walking to the bedroom. He was as hard as James by the time he got there and James tossed him the bottle of oil.

“Remember when we didn't know you were supposed to use that?” James said. 

“Yes, I was angry with you for a week over how much it hurt.” He covered his fingers and cock with a more than generous amount of slick. “May we do it face to face tonight?” Sometimes James asked to be taken from behind, unable to meet his eyes and refusing tenderness or care. This happened most often when he'd been spending too much time with a _certain crowd_ who taught him to feel ashamed of his wants and needs. And they only knew about the women. There had to be something deeply wrong with people who would look at that beautiful, talented man and insist he stay chaste. Or tell anyone who they could and could not love. 

But they also both knew he was seeking comfort in James's arms, and his welcoming body still warm from the bath, because he could not have Mary, who was likely being pawed at by her drunken groom. They may have different personalities, but physically, James was Mary in a male form, if not for their age difference and different mothers, they could be mistaken for twins. As he pushed into James, Bothwell wondered if Mary would make that same little whimper, if her fingers would grip his shoulders as hard, and if she would wrap her legs around his waist the way James's muscular thighs did. The same dark hair on a white pillow, maybe the same sweet helpless moaning in his ear- would she be as tight? Would she fall apart beneath him and tighten around him like Jamie as he climaxed? 

“Oh my God,” James snapped as Bothwell began to shudder and spurt into him, “Did you really just call me Mary?”

“Jamie love,” Bothwell panted, “You know I didn't mean-”

“Oh, whatever,” James said. “I'm not exactly shocked. But you owe me another round. A real one this time.”


	3. Compromise (Reign,  Rule  63, Mary/James,  maledom,  scars, lingerie,  aftercare, bondage)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm and Isobel (Mary and James) are finally a little more honest with each other. Half sibling incest and awkward 1550s gender politics warning.

“You and Knox tried to wipe out the Gordons!” The king paced angrily back and forth across his private study. He looked tired after his ordeal, all Isobel wanted was to tuck him in blankets and feed him tea. He was too infuriated with her to accept any mother henning. 

“But I didn't,” Isobel protested. “There was no need after all. Malcolm, what they almost did was treasonous.”

“That is for me to decide, not you,”Malcolm snapped. He smacked his hand down on the desk. “ _I_ am king of Scotland, not you.”

“And I was only trying to help you. Yes, it benefits my Protestants to have one more powerful Catholic family weakened but -”

“ _Enough_. I am tired of your lies! It seems the lesson I tried to teach you didn't sink in. Very well, I'll just have to teach you again. And again, until you accept that you are no longer Regent and I am the head of this family and your king.” He crooked his finger at her, instead, she nervously stepped backward. 

“You wouldn't threaten me with that if I was a man,”Isobel said. Perhaps if she was a much younger brother, a boy, but not as a man. And she might miss out on certain delightful fringe benefits, although missing out on those wouldn't outweigh all the other benefits of having a prick. 

“If wishes were horses. Please come here.” 

She felt a tingling heat between her legs every time she thought about that punishment, being humiliated and subjugated, then fucked by her handsome king. She would never have expected to like it, yet her body's response had been so powerful, she had spent the next day hiding in bed, crying for his touch again. She knew he was using her, and yet she wanted him as desperately as she always had, maybe more than ever. 

But he was arrogant in thinking he had won, he needed to earn it. 

“No.” And she bolted. The Earl would have caught her in the hallway, or even grabbed her before she made it out of the room. He would have anticipated her every move. She had tried that only once, and learned the consequences weren't worth the attempt. Malcolm was a good man, a gentleman, though, he didn't think like a predator. He needed to learn how, if he wanted to survive as king of Scotland, perhaps she could teach him. The element of surprise gave her a head start despite her shorter legs. 

Malcolm was not sure why he gave chase. It would have been more mature, more kingly, to wait her out and discuss it later. Instead, he took off after her like they were children playing a tagging game. Malcolm finally caught her in a garden shed, she moved fast for someone in a corset and silk shoes. His blood was up now, but so was hers, judging from the fire in her eyes. 

“Why did you run?” Malcolm asked, half demanding king, half baffled boy. 

“You can't expect me to keep making this easy on you,” Isobel laughed. 

“This isn't a game, Iz. Come. Here.”

She moved toward him, smiling that secret smile, hands coyly folded behind her back. 

“Yes, it is. If it's not, then you are going to punish me whenever and however, you want and I have no say, and that is something very very different.”

“If you will not submit willingly...”

“Willing submission is the only kind worth winning!” she cried. “You cannae force me and if you do, I will hate you like I've hated anyone who forced me to my knees.” 

Malcolm grabbed her wrist and tugged her toward him. She was forced to take quick little steps to avoid tripping, and even then she stumbled and he touched her hip to steady her. That spark passed between them again as her eyes widened. 

“You're a brat who wants her own way,” Malcolm said, sitting her on his lap. 

“ My Lord, I have only wanted to be enough for you and I do not please.” Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears. 

“How can you believe you don't please me?” He used a minute roll of his hips to let her feel his member against her thigh. “Isobel, your body could tempt an angel...Oh, but that wasn't what you meant. You meant-”

She nodded stiffly.

“You are always angry and I know you grieve for your friend, you needed to take it out on someone and I did hurt you first. But your anger has not been sated. I know...how this goes.”

“I'm not him,” Malcolm insisted. “I'll never be him, I promise I'll never harm you.”

“When you told me you would never force yourself on me, yet you left me so aroused, I wanted to thank you for giving me the choice. And you kept your promise, it wasn't the sex which was the punishment, _it was how you left me after_.”

Oh. After she'd been humiliated and yet offered herself anyway, he had screwed her, then scolded her as if she were a child, and left with no words of comfort or forgiveness. He _was_ still a bit angry with her, but that was not an excuse for his actions. 

“I haven't forgiven you because you continue in your defiance. Isobel, I want to, but you must prove to me that you've stopped your lies and attempts to play all sides.”

“I did it to protect you. Myself as well but also, your throne. I had no protector other than Knox, I-”Isobel stammered, twisting the fabric of her skirt in her fingers. 

“If you had a husband, you would no longer need to form such alliances. With your reputation secure, with a man to speak for you, to manage your assets and lead your soldiers...We did discuss this in France.” And she had dodged giving him an answer at the time. 

“What?” Isobel blinked at him. 

“I mean with that burden taken off your hands, it could help you settle, give you something to devote yourself to other than meddling in the workings of my court.” He patted her bottom. 

“You don't like being advised by a woman.”

“Women can do anything if they have to,” Malcolm said. “My mother ruled this country when she found herself with no choice, and I think she did a fine job. I don't understand, though, why any woman would want to take on these roles if she didn't have to. And you don't have to anymore, I'm here now. You can rest, start your own family.”

“I failed as a wife, I don't know if I can bear children, what else is there for me?”

“You didn't fail as a wife, he's the one who failed you,” Malcolm said. “I can help you meet a man who is kind, gentle, who won't judge your past or bully and control you. He'll be good to you or he will pay with his life.” 

“Yes, Your Grace,” Isobel replied quietly. Malcolm couldn't read her expression but she sounded tired. 

“There's still the matter of your punishment. We can go to my chambers and do it now, or I will come to yours later tonight.”

“Now, please,My Lord.” 

Together, they returned to the castle and to the king's chambers, Malcolm's palm resting against Isobel's back. She was unnervingly quiet. 

“Who won your childish race?” Greer asked as he passed by in his riding clothes. He gave them both a half bow. 

“No one,” Malcolm said just as Isobel said “I did.”

“Hope the prize is something good,” Greer commented. 

“As do I,” Isobel replied. Upon reaching the king's chambers, Malcolm told his guard he was not to be disturbed, not even for the queen. He sat on the edge of his bed and began pulling his boots off. 

“Undress for me. Slowly.” Isobel obeyed, teasingly unlacing her floral silk bodice.

“We should have seductive music playing,” Isobel said. She shimmied her hips pointedly as she lifted her white blouse off. 

“How would we get a musician in here?” Malcolm asked. Her corset laced in the front, which was very Isobel, it meant she was less likely to have to ask her partner for help. 

“I don't know, it was just a suggestion.” Isobel was down to her white silk 'drawers', a custom she must have picked up from his wife, whose mother had introduced the concept to French Court. 

“Those too, they're too pretty to ruin,” Malcolm said. Isobel slowly undid the blue ribbons they were laced with, hips swaying as the silk fell to the floor. It was such a charming sight, he wanted to buy her more pairs just to watch her take them off. She bent gracefully, gathered them up and folded them with exaggerated care before placing them on the bed. Isobel glanced up at him, biting her full lower lip. “Good girl. Turn around and grip the bedpost with both your hands.”

Malcolm wrapped his own belt around her wrists, securing it to the bedpost. She kept cringing away, turning her body shyly. She'd put up token resistance the last time, he wasn't too concerned. 

“Shhh. We're going to use a cane for a bit and then it'll be over and you can have a treat.” He stroked her back soothingly. He'd only seen her naked once before, so he hadn't expected to see the four long, white scars on her skin, the poorly healed marks of a whip. A protective fury bubbled up inside him.

“Did he do this to you? The Earl?”Malcolm demanded. _Daring to lay a hand on the king's sister_. If he weren't dead already, Malcolm would kill him. 

“Yes,” she whispered. Malcolm was too shocked and sickened to continue with his plan to use a cane on her. He'd known her life with that man had been a nightmare, he simply hadn't figured on permanent disfigurement being a part of it. She would carry a reminder of her husband forever, never able to truly get away from him. “Don't-don't look. Please.”

“I'm sorry, does it hurt?” Malcolm untied the belt from the post, leaving gentle kisses on her wrists even though they hadn't been tied long enough to have marks. 

“Not anymore. But everyone who sees them knows I did something wrong. They know I'm wicked.”

“You didn't. You didn't deserve that.”

“You don't know the whole story,” Isobel said. She curled in on herself. 

“I don't need to, darling. Please lay down with me.” She joined him on the bed, they lay on their sides facing each other. He smoothed dark hair off her face. “I've lost my appetite for punishment today.”

“Why do you have one at all?” Isobel asked. “I'm happy when you're happy, and you're happiest when you can be the master, but why did hurting me arouse you so much?”

“I don't know,” he admitted. “I haven't felt like...a king, lately. Like a man with any sort of control over his life. There's so much pressure to produce an heir, I can't, uh, I can't _perform_ with the queen. It's different with you, that pressure is gone, but the way you absorbed my darker needs, so strong and so generous, I liked it because you seemed to, and I felt like a man again.” 

A conqueror, like a man who had never been held down and violated like a weakling, like a failure. 

“Did feeling like a man include saying those cruel things to me?” Isobel asked. 

“I didn't come to your room planning for sex. I was naive and didn't realize we'd had such a big misunderstanding.” 

“I think,” Isobel said, “You want my submission but you don't understand how it feels _to_ submit.” She rolled on top of him, straddling his thighs and pressing her palms on each side of his head. “ _I_ think you have no idea what you did to me that night. I went somewhere amazing, floaty and safe and cared for, only to end our encounter feeling like a prostitute. Malcolm, the best leaders can see the perspective of those they hope to command and you will not fully dominate me until you accept that I'm not yours by right, _I'm not your whore_.”

“I promise to do better,” Malcolm said. “ And I promise to listen better in the future. You really want this?”

“Under my conditions, yes.” She rocked slowly back and forth against his cock, which was waking up to harden again. 

“Another man did- this-to you and yet you offer me your pain anyway because-” How could she do that so easily? What was her secret? Were women simply blessed with more patience?

“Because I love you.” Isobel kissed him fiercely, he responded just as fiercely, sliding his palms over her hips to keep her from wriggling against his cock and setting him off too soon. 

“I can't give you much more than this. If you weren't my sister, perhaps you could be an official mistress, because she's so ill, Francoise has given me permission to take one. But you're my sister, and no one can ever know what we've done. We would lose everything, and we face hellfire.”

“Then we must pray for each other's souls,” Isobel said.


	4. Exposed  (Reign,  James  Earl of Moray/Bothwell, James  Earl of Moray/Lord Ruthven,   Prostitution, Humiliation,  Masks,   Exhibitionism)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A broke young couple has an Indecent Proposal moment with a ruthless older man (a direct sequel to "Clean").

“You needed that, didn't you,” Bothwell whispered, touching his lips to the sweaty skin of James's shoulder. He slid his softening cock from the other man but didn't move away. James had taken every inch of him twice, with a break for water they could try for number three,maybe James might like to ride him this time. They could spend the morning in bed to recover, everyone else would assume they were sleeping off hangovers somewhere. “Letting someone else take over so you don't have to do all the work.”

“Mhmm.” James flashed him a tired version of one of his devastating smiles. Bothwell could easily fall back in love, because that was the effect James had on both men and women. By never letting anyone see all of him at once, he made everyone feel special, which was a fantastic quality in an ambitious politician, but one likely to provoke possessive frustration in a lover. Bothwell would rather stay sometimes friends with occasional benefits than wander down that path of heartbroken madness again. He also hoped to give James a fighting chance with Lady Castleroy. A wife, children, things men their age should have. And if James could let her, maybe she could give him _this_ as well, in her own more feminine way. 

“You don't seek out other men for the relief though. Not purposely and not lately.” Bothwell rolled on his back, the better to not keep staring helplessly at James.

“Who could I trust?” James asked. “A man who knows my secret might use me to get to the queen. Or he might tell Reverend Knox and I'll face consequences from my church.”

“You're more worried about getting caught. Makes sense, man's judgment is harsher than God's and more immediate.”

“If that makes me a hypocrite, well, they all are. It's just as plausible that instead of condemning me, Knox would decide to keep my secret because I'm too politically valuable to lose. And Lord Ruthven? I referred to that party he invited us to years ago and he immediately responded defensively that he never touched us.”

“He has an unusual definition of 'never touched',” Bothwell remarked. 

“I _know_.''

“I mean, he fucked you. We were there willingly but maybe he doesn't remember that. And if he can't remember fucking _you_ , he shouldn't be handling the nation's money.”

“He didn't fuck me. It didn't go that far. He gave me one of those funny smelling drinks, and when he wasn't looking, I switched our cups. Then I took the money and came back to you. And he shouldn't be Treasurer anyway, he's embezzling from the Crown. So he's probably lying about how much he remembers of our encounter as well.”

“Jamie, stop it.” Bothwell sighed heavily at his lover's confused frown. “It's been almost ten years, you can stop lying about it too. You don't need to protect my feelings, we're not together any more. And it was a business transaction, it didn't count.”

But James remembered the night of the party all too clearly and he didn't agree. They were in London, and they had just gambled away most of their holiday money. They'd retreated to a tavern to figure out what they were going to do next.

“We have enough money for this meal,” James said. “We'll have to settle up and be out of our room at the inn by tonight.”

“Then we have to go home and tell our parents we lost all your birthday money,” Bothwell mumbled, staring miserably down at his beer. “We came all this way so I could sodomize you without your mother walking in on us and now we can't afford a bed.”

It was going to be his first time, too. They'd tried it the other way round, but Bothwell didn't particularly enjoy that role and James wanted to try it. They had thought if they did it far away from anywhere they knew, the guilt would be minimized. He was excited, and anxious but the romantic mood was fading, especially when he remembered Bothwell had made the final bad bet which lost all their money. 

“Mother needed that money for repairs to the house, but she insisted I deserved it instead and I've let her down. You want another round?”

“Yeah, we might as well.”

“It's on me, boys,” interjected a man who'd wandered up to their table. He was in his late thirties, likely a nobleman from the way he was dressed. “Now, don't argue. I always buy a drink for fellow Scots when I run into them on my travels. I'm Lord Patrick Ruthven, may I know your names? " 

James tensed. Had this man overheard their conversation? The conversation which could get them killed? He plastered on a friendly smile.

“We are both called James. We're on holiday for my eighteenth birthday.”

“How exciting for you. You must come to a party I'm hosting at the house I own here in London. There's an opportunity, for the right sort of young man. You see, I heard you speaking and-”

“Step back,” James warned, gripping the hilt of his sword. 

“No need to fear me. All the guests, me included, share your interest. You would serve as decoration and light entertainment for a group of like minded, socially prominent men. Nothing criminal, and you'd be well compensated.” Ruthven produced a square of vellum tied with a red ribbon. “At least take an invitation.”

“We'll consider it, sir,” Bothwell said. “Will you eat with us?”

“No, thank you, I've got to get back to my companion. Enjoy your drinks though.”

After a few minutes had passed, James got up to use the privy. On his way back through the crowd, he heard Ruthven speaking to another man. James drew up as close as he could, thankfully hidden by a few other, taller men. 

“I think they'll do quite nicely, Carlyle,” Ruthven was saying. “You know I don't want toothless street urchins riddled with disease who will get their grubby fingers all over my house and steal from me. Nor do I want bawdy house boys trained to put on an act, a corrupted parody of what young men should be. I want good, healthy boys from good families, who were not brought up to debase themselves. Boys who can seamlessly fit in with nobles should a guest choose to offer more opportunities to them. And those two are adorable.”

“I love that age,” Carlyle said. James couldn't see this other man, but he had a distinctive, raspy voice. “They've got men's bodies but they still have all the energy, curiosity and enthusiasm of children. Everything we show them is novel and exciting. Does the older boy not look familiar to you?”

“I suppose, but I can't place him.”

“He's one of James V's bastards, see how he resembles the king about the face? But he's not just any bastard, he's _that one_. The wee laddie there was the to-do about. Not his fault, of course.”

James's face grew hot. Miles from home, in Britain's largest city, and he could not escape the gossip. 

“Oh,” Ruthven said. “I can see how his mother was capable of nearly ruining a king. He's exquisite. I will have him as soon as possible.”

“Careful. He's still of royal blood,” Carlyle warned. 

“But no longer so heavily protected. He's no longer the child of a king but an independent young man who has no one to guide him. By the end of tonight, I'll be bouncing our late king's little angel on my lap and he'll be calling _me_ Papa.”

“Do you think we should do it?” Bothwell asked nervously as they left the pub to go back to the inn and pack their things. “Even if we left now, it would take days to get home, with no money for food or beds– and my parents are already disappointed in me constantly.”

“Then we'll go to the party. But we must be careful,” James said. 

“Yes, I figured those friendly older men lurking in a pub are not entirely on the up and up,” Bothwell replied. 

That, and they knew his identity, information they could do any number of terrible things with. Both churches fighting for control of this island would say that because he had been born out of sin, he had a damaged moral compass and would always be inclined toward promiscuity and other lustful failings. The public shaming would be relentless. As a bastard, even a king's bastard, his place in society was still not secure and might not survive another scandal. 

The party was held in a discreet townhome in the best part of London. Gentlemen in richly appointed carriages were let in through the front, while James and Bothwell were guided to the mews to stow their horses, and then through the service entrance. A footman led them up the back stairs to a long, quiet hallway and into an empty bedroom. They could hear the sounds of the party beginning below while the footman explained the setup and rules. 

“This is where you'll undress and wash up. If you require more water and towels, let one of the servants know. It's also yours for the night if either of you decides not to accept an invitation from one of the guests. It's optional, but it does pay extra. Quite a bit extra, depending on who the guest is and what they want. We only have two rules, first, guests may not commit sex acts with a performer without their consent, and second, no intercourse may take place in the main room. It's quite simple.” He left them to get ready. 

“I think we're supposed to wear these,” Bothwell said. He held up a papier mache eye mask painted gold. “And nothing else.” 

“Well, here's to getting our money back,” James said, taking a gulp of the bubbly white wine which had also been left in their room. 

The hungry, assessing eyes of older men followed them as they descended the stairs. James was aware he was growing into a good looking man. Girls were always interested (he had found he could get whatever he wanted from them) and even people who didn't want to sleep with him were nicer to him than they were to boys with less pretty faces. He came from an attractive family, he took care of himself, he played sports and that had helped his muscles fill out. He had been told he had a nice cock, and it might sound immodest but he couldn't really disagree. And Bothwell was handsome too, if not quite caught up to James in physical development. But neither of them had ever been so naked in front of so many clothed people who had shown up just to look at them. 

To look, and to touch. The guests sampled boys the way they sampled the food and drink which uniformed servants offered. Feeling suddenly vulnerable, James and Bothwell clutched hands, not yet willing to let each other out of their sight. The boys (different sizes, body types and coloring, some colors James had never seen before, but all attractive) all wore the same gold mask. The guests, who ranged from late twenties to elderly, wore whatever color and design they favored. It turned the house into a whirlwind of color, sparkle and feathers. The torches in their wall sconces reflected off gilded mirrors and painting frames and polished wood and jewels. The homeowner liked paintings of naked Greeks and Romans, mostly male figures. 

“I want to paint you,” said an elderly gentleman in a Harlequin mask as he sidled up to the boys and handed them each a drink. “I'll pay both of you to pose for me. Something...biblical. David and his special friend Prince Jonathan. One thoroughly respectable piece, and one or two extra pieces of erotic art for the discerning private collector.”

“Sorry, we're only in town for tonight,” Bothwell said politely. 

James lifted the cup to his lips, his drink smelled wrong, off. Bothwell raised an eyebrow, and when their generous new friend was distracted, they poured most of their drinks in a nearby flower vase. They were sipping on untainted wine when Bothwell boldly kissed him. James didn't hesitate to return the kiss, because they could, here, the first time he'd ever kissed his lover in front of other people. Their kisses deepened, grew more aggressive. James walked Bothwell backward, laying him out on a chaise and they rocked their hips together. With all those people watching him, he didn't know how to move, Bothwell was trying but it all felt more awkward than romantic. 

“The little one should top,” someone murmured. James faltered, he gave Bothwell a questioning look, and Bothwell nodded. They awkwardly changed places, and yes, as exposed as he felt, this fit much better, he should have been ashamed to play the the girl but he wasn't. Not for the man he loved. Bothwell's thrusting hips dragged his cock against the sensitive skin of James's member and he whined out loud. 

“Oh _God_ they're beautiful,” he heard a man groan, and it was followed by the sounds of skin on skin as men pleasured themselves to the show. Bothwell brushed the pads of his fingers over James's nipple, teasing it into a little peak, James squirmed and whined again. 

“ _Please_.”

“I know, I know, I'm going to give you what you need, Jamie love.”

“Oh!” When they climaxed, they did so almost together, James tumbled over first, stroking Bothwell to help him follow. He knew some of the men had finished shortly after. He didn't really want to think about it. 

A servant passed the boys cloths and a small bowl of water so they could clean up, and took the items away when they were done. Bothwell kissed both of James's flushed cheeks. James wanted to sit with his friend for awhile, and not talk or interact with anyone else, but Ruthven was watching him intensely, and James understood what his fate would be tonight. Especially if he wanted that money. 

“Come sit with me.” Lord Ruthven wore a wolf mask, it was made of real fur, unlike the paper masks of some of the other guests. James went, adding a bit of sway to his walk since he knew a few of the guests were watching him. 

“May I sit on your lap, Papa?” He asked, all doe eyed. 

“Such a polite boy, of course, come here.” 

James sat, and let Ruthven and other men pet him, and feed him bits of food and more of that bubbly wine. They talked over his head, mostly on subjects he didn't understand, some of which he did but pretended not to, and occasionally made comments about his body. A large male hand stroked his cock back to half hardness, James bit back a mortified whimper. 

“Where did you even _find_ this one?” 

“Would you believe it, in a pub,” Ruthven replied. “Don't look at me like that, he didn't come with a bottle. James here is down from Scotland like me, on holiday for his birthday.”

There was a chorus of “Happy birthday, lad” from the men, and a round of raucous drunken laughter when James flirtatiously pointed out that he was properly dressed for the occasion. 

“How'd you like to earn a bit extra tonight?” Ruthven asked. He stroked his hand up and down James's spine. 

“I would...” James said, “But I'd like to ask for more than the original offer.”

“Oh, you would?” He was amused, condescending. 

“You see, I've never- with a man,” James said. He blushed and squirmed on Ruthven's lap, knowing he was exciting the man as hardness pressed against his bare skin. “I'm so curious to try it, but once I do, any experience after that will not be the same. That alone is worth twice, three times as much, is it not?”

Ruthven laughed, he leaned forward and whispered

“To be the first to bury his prick in your sweet rump? Oh, I agree.” He eyed Bothwell speculatively. “Would your lover join us?”

“My friend is too young,” James said, repressing a shudder. He touched Bothwell's arm. “Go upstairs and rest. I'll see you later.” Bothwell cast a helpless glance back at his friend before acquiescing. 

“Now, where did we leave off?” Ruthven asked. A waiter passed by and handed them new drinks. James's drink still smelled funny, but this time there was nowhere to dispose of it. 

“We were speaking of the price of taking me to bed?” James put as much shy innocence in his voice as possible. “I' think four times the original offer is reasonable. I don't want to sound mercenary, it's just that-”

Ruthven cupped James's face.

“You're valuable, high quality stock and you can't undersell. We're businessmen, we understand. Would it entice you more if I extended an offer to keep you?”

“Keep?” He knew exactly what that meant, but he was playing the part of a boy who didn't realize he was walking into a trap. In exchange for the gifts and money, his reputation would be destroyed and he could easily be giving up his right to the word 'no'. What would happen if Ruthven grew bored with him, or James outgrew his taste? Without love involved, there was an age at which being a pampered, kept pet was no longer cute. He had too much pride and ambition for that. 

“I'd buy you a house in Edinburgh, you and your friend would live there, and I would finance a comfortable lifestyle. In exchange, you'd be mine exclusively.”

“I'd need to think it over, what if you're unsatisfied?” He smiled coyly. “And my mother-”

“The Lady Margaret needs funds now that both your fathers are gone,” Ruthven said. James gasped. He'd actually been about to say that his mother, although he was of age and she couldn't stop him from moving out, would be suspicious about the where and why. “Yes, I know who you are. And who you could have been if the world was a just place, _my little king_. So I'll pay your high price. And I have two friends who will each pay double the original price if they can have you too.”

That was more money than their estates could earn in the time it took the coming winter to make the roof fall in. And it was just sex, it didn't matter, did it? It wasn't as if he needed to save himself for a wedding night. He'd promised Bothwell, but his friend never needed to know. 

“Alright.” James downed the funny smelling ale in two gulps. It might have hit him less hard if he'd been slowly sipping it all along. In a few minutes, when he rose from Ruthven's lap, he stumbled, but those two nice men held him steady as they led him to an opulent bedroom and laid him out on embroidered satin. Was that a down filled mattress? His whole body felt filled with warm honey, he felt pliant, accommodating. The painted blue sky and clouds on the ceiling spun slowly and although the three masked men were now stroking themselves as they stared down at him, he was not frightened and found his own hand involuntarily reaching for his own cock. 

Bothwell couldn't sleep until James returned, until he knew the other boy was safe. He'd locked the door from the inside to keep out any “guests” so when he did hear James trying to turn the knob, he had to get up and let him in. James seemed...drunk. That was the only way to describe it, sad and drunk. He was clean, they must have let him bathe after, but he seemed wide eyed and lost despite the grin he flashed Bothwell. The six large bags of coin he tossed on the bed spilled out over the mattress. Bothwell sat down abruptly, trying to mentally process their windfall. James collapsed next to him with a grunt.

“And so our life of crime begins,” James giggled. “After I've rested, we need to get out of here, I trust these men even less now that we have their money.” James took a handful of the money and held it up to the light, watching the gold and silver coins trickle through his fingers. They made a soft tinkling sound as they dripped over the sheets, his face, his stomach, his cock. He looked beautiful like that, with the coins reflecting the torchlight, and he must have realized it because when he stared down at himself, his breath hitched and his eyes watered.

Bothwell knew James had felt unwanted for most of his life, he had just discovered a group of people who wanted him, but for the wrong reasons. How devastating must it be to want to be valued, and find yourself bluntly confronted with how much you could literally sell yourself for. Bothwell understood, even if James didn't, that his friend was worth more than those men could ever pay. But they were not children anymore, and the world was a dark place, they could not afford innocence and black and white morality. 

James pressed up against his side, giving his earlobe a kiss. He was flushed and bright eyed, hard against Bothwell's thigh. 

“I wanna do it,” he whispered, mouth quirking in a sly smile. 

_How dare you, how dare you come to me directly from another man's bed, pretend it never happened and offer me something we both know you no longer have?_ Out loud, Bothwell merely replied, “Let me find the oil.”

Their hosts had been kind enough to provide it in a decorative glass bottle, to make the powerful men and the compromised teenage boys they were taking advantage of feel like they were getting the romantic, luxurious experience instead of some dirty brothel. 

James needed to know Bothwell did not think he was too dirty to touch. So Bothwell ignored how suspiciously easy it was to open him, all the signs of previous use, and gently fucked James Stewart on a pile of silk sheets and money. 

He would always be worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warning, James and Bothwell have sex while James is high as a kite but Bothwell is too young and inexperienced to realize this. Bothwell is also what a modern audience would consider under age, which is less unusual for the period, but he doesn't do anything with anyone other than James.
> 
> On Reign, Ruthven is portrayed as, age wise, a contemporary of Knox. Maybe a bit older. Knox was in his mid thirties when James was in his late teens, so Ruthven's probably like 38 here. He was also a real person, although his wikipedia entry doesn't mention bisexuality he is implied to be a self hating closet case on the show.


	5. Betwixt  God'n Me  (James I/George  Villiers,  mirrors, handjob, toys)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James I will do anything for love, but he won't do that.
> 
> If you got here by Googling yourself or someone you know, turn back now.

“The Bible forbids it, as does the law of the land.”

“It also forbids men to love other men,” George argued. “And yet, here we are.” Naked, in the king's bed, having a post coital disagreement about a certain act James refused to perform on George. Or allow George to perform on him, he'd already tried that angle as well and met with no success. It seemed the younger man had believed that when the king took him to bed, at some point in a future encounter James would make use of him via a certain act of violence. And James was baffled that George, in fact, claimed he'd been looking forward to it and was a bit offended that it hadn't happened yet. He thought James had found fault with him. 

“It does not,” James said. “To love is never a sin, to care for another and want to bring them pleasure as I do you, is no sin. I love you as a husband loves his wife, and if I did a thing so painful, and shaming to you, that would not be love and that's what makes it a sin. My sweet, I give you everything you ask for but I can't give you this.”

“I want to receive your seed like a wife would. It wouldn't be shameful for me, it's you, it's my choice, you're my choice- and I know it can feel good.”

James ran his finger slowly from George's forehead, over the bridge of his nose, pressing it to his lips in a 'shush' gesture. 

“Your king has said no, and that is the end of it.” George was breaking his heart, pleading for one of the handful of things James could not give him. “Pray do not pout at me.”

“I'm not a honey trap!” George blurted out. 

“What?”

“I'm not...here to trick you into incriminating yourself, and provide a witness against you in a trial. Do you not trust me? I only want to know for sure that I am fully yours!” He was on his hands and knees on the bed, begging with those large eyes. 

“It would be best if you slept in your own bed tonight,” James said, needing George out of the room before he gave in to the temptation. He tried to ignore George's face crumpling, and his stiff and silent dressing. 

In the morning, a castle page entered James's private study while he was reading over a few trade agreements, and handed the king a clumsily folded note. 

_Your Majesty's humble servant wishes to apologize for his childish and whining behavior and hopes Your Grace will forgive him as he cares very deeply for you._

Bless his heart. James took his quill, and composed a response to the boy's sweet but entirely unnecessary apology. 

_My Dear Friend, I could not possibly be angry with you over that. Your honesty is a trait I most admire and I care for you too much to want you to act like someone else. If you can be patient, and come to my chambers in one week, I have something which I hope will ease your worries._

George had a difficult time waiting patiently for _a whole week_ to see the king again. He was almost about to explode by the time he received a summons to attend the king in his bedchamber. He had to remind himself that he was supposed to be an adult and it would be undignified to run there. Once inside the bedchamber, George waited for the king to acknowledge him, instead of hurling himself in James's arms and kissing him the way he'd been dying to for days. 

“Come sit with me, I have a gift for you.” James patted the mattress. “I only dismissed you because I feared if I did not, I wouldn't be able to resist your request. It was not your fault.”

George joined him on the bed, and the king almost shyly presented a polished wooden box. Inside, George found a muslin cloth wrapped around an oblong shape. James had already given him presents of clothing, jewelry, books, flowers and cakes with little affectionate notes hidden in them. What could this one be? He excitedly unrolled the cloth to find an anatomically correct, life sized, highly polished and shellacked, wooden phallus. It had even been painted to match his lover's fair skin tone.

“It is my likeness.” The king blinked and licked his lips nervously, something George had never seen before, he wanted George's _approval_. 

“Is there a – do you wish me to use this to improve a skill?” George asked. When the courtiers had dressed him up, and shoved him in the path of the king, they had encouraged him to 'make the king happy', which had never been a chore, for he quickly came to love James. But perhaps there was a crucial detail he'd missed. 

“No, no,” the king insisted. “I suppose it could be used that way if you wanted to surprise me with a new trick, but I am not criticizing your efforts. This is for your pleasure.”

“I don't understand?”

“I cannot and will not, change my mind about the subject we discussed. However, I _am_ trying to better understand your argument. If it would truly bring you joy to feel me in that way, I'd rather not deny you. I had this toy made, for you to play with instead. You might use it when we're far apart and you miss me, or,” and here he fixed George with a positively smoldering look, “allow me to watch.”

George shivered from his toes to the top of his head. It wouldn't feel like his partner's warm skin, or flex, or spill seed, yet it was as close to a compromise as they were going to reach. He was lucky the king was willing to concede anything. And that he had a king who had listened, and then gone off to find a practical solution, because he didn't want his lover to be unhappy. It _was_ a remarkable likeness, complete with pink tip, and if it felt cold, he could always wrap it in thin silk or sheepskin. 

“Sire, you are so clever and thoughtful towards me. Thank you,” George breathed. 

“Might I see a demonstration soon?” Which, in the manner of the way kings spoke, meant he wanted to see it _now_. Intimidating, but George had risen to all the other challenges in his relationship with the king. 

“If Your Grace will just wait a moment, I will return.” 

“Very well.” James lay back on his elbows and smiled patiently. 

George scampered off to the kitchen to find his friend who would supply the necessarily ingredient without asking inconvenient questions. 

“I'm back.”

“Yes, I can see that," James said wryly. 

George placed the small cup of oil on a side table while he slowly undressed, leaving nothing on but his linen shirt. He felt more alluring that way, for some reason, it would make a prettier picture when he was all laid out on display. He propped a velvet pillow under his lower back, lying down to face the long mirror hanging on the opposite wall. The king leaned down to give him kisses, to pet his hair and run hands over his body. George moaned, he was warm and tingling all over, growing harder with every kiss and touch. James pushed George's shirt up, and all the way off. 

“I have to prepare myself, it will-ah-it will hurt less.” Looking intrigued, the king assisted by handing George the cup of oil. George soaked his fingers in it, and using the mirror as a guide, he carefully took his time preparing himself. Two fingers, the slight burning stretch, of a third, George and the king looked down to stare at the reflection of his pink, open hole in the mirror. He wanted to pretend he was an offering to some exotic god. The king let out a soft shuddering breath, and George heard his clothes rustling as he stroked himself. 

George rubbed oil over the surface of the toy, and positioned it awkwardly at his entrance. James was on the larger side, and as a close replica, the toy did hurt a bit at first and unyielding compared to a real man. But it was a hurt which promised to feel good soon enough, it stretched him in a way that felt like heaven. He carefully pushed it in and out, increasing the roughness of the thrusts when he became more comfortable with using it. George used his other hand to rub his own cock, but it soon became difficult to manage both at once, he whimpered with frustration as he couldn't reach the spot he wanted inside himself and touch his cock at the same time. Waves of pleasure rolled through George's body as James leaned down and wrapped long fingers around the shaft, easily bringing both of them off, one after the other. James kissed his forehead, the tip of his nose and his lips as George came down from his climax.

“Has this changed your mind, Sire?” George panted. He shifted to rest his head in the king's lap, and get his hair petted again. The king seemed to read his mind, and obliged tenderly.

“No. But I'm glad the toy brought you happiness. You are beautiful, and pleasing, and I love you very much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought it would've been fun to post this Sunday, but unfortunately I couldn't get enough caffeine in my system to keep me awake long enough to finish it in time. Well, that and procrastination.


	6. Covetous pt1  (Reign,  Rule 63,  Isobel/Edmund,   Isobel/Henry IX, cuckolding, against a wall)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When your husband is poised to become king of England, you must put aside your feelings for his brother.
> 
> Intrigue, murder and sex during four Christmases at Hampton Court.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the story contains references to the death of an infant
> 
> It's also kind of complicated to explain, since it's another AU of an AU. In the main Rule 63verse, as a last ditch effort to maintain peace between their nations, [ Isobel (female James Earl of Moray) was promised to Edmund Tudor (male Elizabeth I)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12191382/chapters/27679689) when they were both little. _This obviously fell apart for a number of reasons._ In _this_ AU of an AU, years later, Henry VIII uses Scotland's weakened and chaotic political situation to coerce a marriage between Isobel and Edmund's older brother.
> 
> For those wondering who didn't catch on when I hinted at it in other fics, there is no King Edward in this 'verse, he's female and thus never gets the crown (something which may be covered in its own ficlet). The throne goes straight to Mary Tudor (aka Henry IX).
> 
> ...when does something stop being fanfic and turn into original fiction?

**Hampton Court, December, 1542**

Prince Henry had gone to his father and insisted vehemently that, due to his betrothed being all of thirteen years old and having recently gone through a tragedy _they_ had caused, he wanted to wait two or three years before physically consummating with her. The king agreed, but refused to wait on a formal wedding, claiming England needed to finalize the arrangement with Scotland while their northern neighbors were still weakened from the death of their own king. 

The girl was of an age with his younger brother, and originally meant for him. But that was when Prince Henry had been put away like his mother, declared a bastard. Now that their situations were reversed, and he'd been restored to the line of succession, as the eldest and the heir, he must marry before his siblings. Father believed that this plan was better than his last idea, which was to convince the Queen Regent of Scotland to allow a marriage between the new infant King Malcolm and his own little daughter Eleanor. But that could cause the balance of power to shift to Scotland instead even as Eleanor provided legitimate Tudor heirs to the Scottish throne. This new plan, harkening back to the original one conceived years before, got the Tudors possession of a bride with Scottish royal blood, and one who would be easy to control. She couldn't bring them the Scottish throne, her heirs would have a weaker claim, but she was something to hold over the Stewarts ' heads. 

Prince Henry privately thought this would've worked better if they hadn't been the cause of her father's death. Unlike James V, who would have done anything to protect his child, Queen Marie de Guise had agreed to the arrangement because she valued her stepdaughter _less_ than her own legitimate son. This was the best way the girl could contribute to her family's continued success and safety. 

Tonight, he sat on the holly and ivy bedecked dais with Father, greeting the dignitaries arriving for the Christmas celebrations. No one addressed the absence of _his_ former, and late, stepmother. Father was clearly eager to move on, restless and irritable. Mother would have known how to handle this, and Henry hoped Father regretted not having her around. Anne of Cleves, who had also briefly been his stepmother, was serving as female host instead. 

“Lady Stewart and Lord Douglas, of Scotland,” the herald announced. The crowd grew quiet, parting for a small female figure dressed in a red silk dress in keeping with the holiday fashions of the court. The middle aged, richly dressed nobleman walking with her kept a solicitous hand on her back, as close to holding her hand as was proper at her age. Six Scottish soldiers in regalia followed, looking impressively threatening. She had no ladies in waiting, she was a little girl with an unreadable expression, surrounded by burly warriors. 

They bowed, Lady Stewart in the lead with a graceful, sweeping curtsy which would have been note perfect if not for her nervous stumble at the end. Lord Douglas gently steadied her, but she flushed all the same. Lady Stewart was average size for her age, fair skinned, with large dark eyes and a head full of thick dark ringlets. Henry had seen the portrait which had originally been made years ago during the first attempt at a marriage contract. It was well done but didn't quite do her justice, she had been five at the time. The Lady Stewart was not yet old enough to bed, but she was also far from an infant now. She was already incredibly pretty, pretty enough that her bridegroom was not the only man looking, her body had begun to bud into a voluptuous shape, and barring an unfortunate twist of fate, she would blossom into a stunning woman. 

“My Lady,” Father boomed, “We are all glad to finally meet you. I hope you have settled in well.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” she replied in a soft voice, eyes demurely downcast.

“And Lord Douglas, we are also glad the lady will have someone to stand for her at the wedding. It would not feel right otherwise.” 

That was the closest Father would ever come to an apology for what had happened. 

“I am bound to protect her as long as need be,” Douglas said in his Scots burr. “ She's my daughter by marriage if not by blood. And her mother could not travel, as we have an infant son at home.” 

Both the slain king's women were new mothers? Yet another family alongside his own, Father had ripped apart. Scotland had needed to learn a lesson and it wasn't as if Father had personally stabbed their king and yet Prince Henry was looking into the faces of innocent collateral damage and remembering how Father crowed over his victory. 

“Congratulations,” Father said. “May mother and baby remain healthy and well. Please, join us in our festivities.” 

Prince Henry took this as his cue to descend the dais and greet his bride personally. He bowed low, taking her hand and kissing it chastely. 

“My Lady, I am Prince Henry, your intended. I didn't expect such beauty and I find myself well pleased. Will you come and speak to me privately?” 

Lady Stewart glanced anxiously at her stepfather, who nodded in cautious encouragement. They weren't going far, after all. Still, one of her Scottish guard followed. 

“Yes, Your Grace.” She rested her little hand on Henry's forearm as they retreated to a quiet corridor. A page handed Henry the wrapped gift he'd prepared for Lady Stewart.

“A girl as pretty as you should be properly adorned for Christmas,” Henry said. He watched Lady Stewart open the package, and her eyes lit up at the sight of the hair piece, a wreath of roses fashioned from red velvet, with gold stems and green silk leaves. 

“Thank ye, Your Majesty. I dinnae ken it was the fashion at English court. I thought- that I did well w'the dress but-”

“You are doing fine,” Henry said gently. He helped her to secure the wreath in her hair. “No one is laughing at you and no one is disappointed in you, it's your first time. There will be many firsts and much to learn.”

She took his hand, running her fingers over his palm curiously, her pale face flushed. With the flowers in her hair, lit by torchlight and the snow falling heavily outside the window, she looked like a painting by one of the great European masters. 

“Will ye be a patient and gentle teacher? Or-or should I fear ye?”

“I would not deliberately cause you harm, My Lady,” Henry said. He was honestly not sure how he'd teach her what he didn't know much about himself, but he had two or three years to figure it out before they had to demonstrate in front of his family and closest friends. In the meantime, he could at least help her with court politics and Father's bizarre and mercurial religious demands. He could make her welcome, happy, comfortable, and when the rest became relevant, she would trust him enough to go where he led without fear. 

“Tell me, Lady Isobel, may I call you that since we'll be married? Do you like to dance?”

“Aye!” She grinned. 

“Let us go and dance, I would very much like to watch you.”

Lady Stewart blushed and giggled.

“Aye, and I think I would enjoy dancing for ye.” 

“Do you miss your new baby brother?” Henry asked as they returned to the ballroom.

“I will miss him greatly. He's called William. His lungs are weak though, for awhile we feared we might lose him.”

God, it kept getting worse. 

“Will I see them again, ye think?” she asked. The family who all either didn't want her enough, or lacked the power to, fight for her. The people who had sold her body to their enemies to save their own lives. But Henry had been there too, in a way. He understood more than she knew about still loving and wanting the approval of, people who didn't want you around. 

“I'll arrange it, if that's what you wish,” Henry said. “There's no reason for you to go without speaking to your family, I have lived through that and wouldn't want it for anyone else.” 

Their first dance was well received, Lady Isobel was graceful and she had been trained in all the classic dances, although she would need a dancing tutor to keep her up to speed, they fit together well. After their dance, Henry brought her over to meet Edmund and Eleanor. His scrawny, awkward little brother bowed to the new princess. 

“Will you favor me with a dance, Lady Stewart?”

“I would like that, Lord Edmund.” They joined the formation of dancers, tiny compared to everyone else (drawing silent cooing from the crowd). Henry heard Edmund whisper, “You look beautiful tonight, My Lady. Especially with your headpiece. Flowers for a true Tudor Rose.”

**Hampton Court, December, 1546**

Isobel, who had never previously been all that interested in the Scriptures, found herself enjoying her Bible studies with Catherine Parr. It was comforting, both to have a mother figure willing to sit and talk with her, and to speak of her beliefs with someone who shared them. She had been frightened, the first time her mother in law caught her out. Isobel didn't know what had given her away, she was good at covering her tracks. 

_“Am I right to suspect you hold Lutheran sympathies?”_

_“Almost, Your Grace. Like a growing number of my countrymen, I am a Calvinist,” Isobel whispered._

_“But your husband, set to inherit the throne, is an increasingly fanatical Catholic hardliner.”_

_“He dotes on me beyond all sense, yet if he knew, Henry would see it as the worst of betrayals, as bad as if I were an adulteress. I am unfaithful to him with another church. The future queen cannot be a heretic, his feelings for me would turn, and I could be executed and he would get away with it.”_

_“And I have some experience in these matters, I will not let that happen to you,” Catherine replied firmly.  
_

People were dying because they no longer knew what the rules were from day to day. Isobel held a palm over the growing bump where her baby lived, it was more important than ever to protect herself and her heir. She had to play the virtuous Catholic wife for as long as need be. She carefully stood and moved toward her bed. 

"Happy Christmas, Lady Isobel." Lord Edmund poked his head around the door, he rarely bothered with being announced. 

“Happy Christmas, dear brother. Come ben,” Isobel offered. He hurried over to assist her in walking but she batted his arm away. “I'm not so big I can't move on my own yet.” Isobel was only just starting to really show, tonight they'd have to make a formal announcement and then she would lose all control over the situation and be banished to her lying in. She did allow him to kneel and remove her satin slippers before she lay down. He removed his own shoes and joined her,he smiled adoringly and reached a curious hand toward her belly.

“Please,don't,” Isobel said. 

“Sorry, I just, I wanted- you're beautiful like this.”

“Now that I'm pregnant, everyone wants to touch me except my husband. But I want him more than ever.” She held up her wrist to show him a heavy gold bracelet, dripping with rubies. “He buys me jewels and dresses instead. They are starting to feel like shackles. Your father took mistresses when his wives were pregnant, will I lose my husband to another woman?” 

“Not my brother. He wouldn't, he's too sincerely pious and far too devoted to you. I believe you might be the only woman he's ever had,” Edmund said.

“Hmm,” Isobel replied. It was difficult for _her_ to resist the idea of taking a lover though, she was so incredibly touch starved already. Just having a good looking male body next to her in bed made Isobel dream of asking him to slip his hand up her dress and-and-

“I'd touch you, if you let me,” Edmund murmured. He kissed her cautiously, and she let him, because it was nice to lay in bed with Edmund and kiss him, even if it never went further than that. “I can do things now. I know things.”

“I know ye do,” Isobel said. “I'm sorry that happened. But ye must not covet what belongs to another. What belongs to the man who will be your king.”

“But he wasn't your choice and I could be. We were supposed to be the ones married.”

“When we were infants,” Isobel reminded him. She took his hand in her own. “If we had married as bairns, ye would not have been my choice any more than your brother was. Now that we're grown and I know ye, I care for ye, and we share so many similar views, I wish things had gone differently. There's no going back now.”

“And my brother,” Edmund said bitterly, “can get you the one thing you want more than any man.”

“Aye. I want a crown.” She didn't dare tell Edmund the rest, that it was specifically the crown of England she wanted, she wanted it for herself, but if not for her, then she would work to ensure that her own Stewart child would one day sit on that throne. This family would pay for what they had done to hers.

For Christmas, Isobel had been given charge of the ballroom's décor. She'd chosen blues, silvers and whites and encouraged all the guests of court to follow the same scheme. Her own dress was high waisted to leave room for the baby, and it was dark blue satin, embroidered with silver stars and tiny pearls to emulate the icy winter sky over her homeland. She had a white fur cape to wrap herself in if she should feel chilly. The Prince had already forbidden her from dancing for the sake of her health, he made her sit on the dais and kept sending servants over with rich food and drink. 

“He's going to make me as big as a hoose,”Isobel whined, plucking the head off a small marzipan swan. 

“He's only worried, all fathers are this nervous with their first child,” Queen Catherine said. 

“I know, but I'm hardier than he thinks I am.” Although, Isobel could admit to being a bit tired, and the dancing was lovely to watch from this vantage point. 

“May I have your attention?” Prince Henry called out. He stood, and the crowd obediently quieted. “I have a most wonderful announcement to make. I'm delighted to inform all of England that my wife, the Princess Isobel, is with child!” The guests burst into such thunderous applause and cheering that Isobel actually shrunk back a bit shyly. “We will make a joyful noise unto the Lord in celebration of our good fortune!'

The Prince nodded to the musicians, who struck up a rhythm which might be new to most of the guests but entirely familiar to Isobel. 

“Oh!' she cried and clapped excitedly. The crowd gasped as dozens of Highland dancers, drummers and pipers flooded the room. The king, who had been dozing on his throne, woke up with a startled cry and tried to pretend he'd been conscious all along. Isobel giggled, earning an affectionately scolding look from the queen. 

“Are you pleased, my dove?” Her husband asked. 

“Oh, I _am_ , Henry, you spoil me so!” She pulled him down for an enthusiastic kiss. 

“Actually, it was Edmund's idea, he's so thoughtful, isn't he?”


	7. Covetous pt2  (Reign,  Rule 63,  Isobel/Edmund,   Isobel/Henry IX, cuckolding, against a wall,  costumes)

**Hampton Court, December, 1549**

Edmund found his sister in law sitting on a bench in the garden. At least she had her blue and gold brocade coat on, and her fur trimmed hat, gloves and boots. His brother had written to confide in Edmund that she'd been “off” since losing their little boy a few months ago. She was holding a light blue tartan blanket, and when he got close, Edmund could make out the name 'Harry' and a birthdate embroidered carefully in gold thread. Isobel traced the letters lovingly with her fingers. She must have done the needlework during her lying in, when all the ladies of court gathered together to make clothes and toys for the baby. 

“You shouldn't be out here alone,” Edmund said. She glanced up at him, he saw her eyes were watery. 

“I'm out here _because_ I want to be alone,” Isobel said flatly. “Ye needn't worry I'll try to freeze to death the way my child did.”

The poor babe had been found in a pond, ice already forming on his limbs, eyes and mouth, his pale skin turning blue, his red curls floating around his head like a halo. The court investigators concluded that he must have wandered off from his nanny. The nanny was in prison awaiting trial, but that would never bring back the little prince. 

“You're too practical to be that dramatic,” Edmund replied. “And I know, it must be hard to breathe in there, but the king sent me to find you because he worries for you.”

“He needs me to make another son. I heard him telling someone that we must put aside our loss and try again as soon as possible. He wants-he wants me to go through this again.”

“It hurts him too, but the world will never let him show that, the way it allows for your grief,” Edmund said. He sat gingerly on the cold stone bench. “He talks about needing an heir because he misses his baby as well. He doesn't know how to solve your sadness.”

“Why can't he just allow me the sadness?”

“I suppose because he's a powerful man,” Edmund suggested, “ and powerful men dislike problems they can't fix. Father was the same.”

“If he wants to do something practical, he can investigate who murdered our child. For I believe Harry dinnae fall, he was drowned purposely. He was _good_ at walking, the paths weren't icy, and his nanny was a girl we had never had problems with before.”

“Who would gain from that?” Edmund asked.

“If we're being honest,” Isobel said, “a long list of people and that list starts with Lord Edmund Tudor.”

“I would never murder my own nephew,” Edmund protested. He knew, though, with a cold sinking feeling, that she was right to consider him the prime suspect. As unthinkable of an option as it was to him, the Prince of Wales had been the only person standing between him and the throne. “I loved him too. I loved him as much as I love you.” 

“Ye have to admit, there's also a precedent,” Isobel said, ignoring another of his frequent declarations of his feelings. They both knew the history of ruthless uncles not content with their place in the line of succession. Richard III and the two little boys in the tower, King John's alleged murder of his nephew Arthur. “And as long as she has two older brothers, it does Eleanor no good to murder their heirs. She'd be better off making sure to have a son before I produce again, and then murdering _you_.”

“But I didn't do this.”

“I know,” Isobel said. “I know. And if Eleanor's first child is a boy, she's moving back up my list of suspects. And the Earl of Hertford as well. I don't care if they share our religious politics.”

“Isobel, please come inside. You don't have to attend the ball, but you did work hard to plan it. I don't want to pressure you, however, I think you'll feel better if you join us. Your mother and siblings, like Little William, came all this way to see you.” He put his hand over her gloved one, only realizing a moment too late that her hands were in her lap and his was now resting in an inappropriate place. She didn't push him away or rebuke him. 

“We ought to go inside,” she said reluctantly. “We need to put on our costumes. And I have missed my brothers dearly.”

“Might I come to your chambers tonight, My Lady Wife?” King Henry murmured to Isobel as they sat on the dais and watched the Christmas celebrations. This year, the theme was a masquerade. The ballroom was awash in brilliant colors, courtiers dressed as flowers, and animals as well as characters from history, mythology and pantomime. The king and queen were Monarch butterflies, although the king had refused to put on his wings. Isobel wore orange flowers in her hair , and a dress of black silk, the skirt cut into asymmetrical strips to expose the layers of red and orange silk underskirts. Her dancing slippers were designed to match, with ribbons twisting around her calves.

“I would prefer not, Your Majesty,” Isobel whispered. “I am still not ready.” The very thought made her ill. It wasn't his fault, he'd stayed true to the promise he'd made the day they met, that sex with him would never be deliberately unpleasant. She used to be eager for it, he made it good for her and he was always wonderful after, often surprising her with sweets or pretty underthings and hair ribbons. But now it meant the pressure to get pregnant again, and hope desperately for a son, just to risk another loss. Harry had been a fully formed little person, who ran around, and talked a bit, he was curious and affectionate, he loved mashed apples but he hated rye bread. And one day he didn't exist anymore, and they all wanted her to _start over with a new one_. They couldn't even give her room to breathe. 

“May I dance with Edmund?”

“Of course, my dove, if it will make you happy.” He smiled indulgently but sadly.

The king never danced with her these days, he saw it as incompatible with his age and dignity (much like refusing to humor her and wear the damn butterfly wings). Isobel and Edmund led the dancing, and Edmund was not only quite good but they matched each other well. When she spun, the contrasting layers of her dress floated out around her. It was a lovely party, but turning with Edmund, and looking up at his freckled face looking down at her, she only wanted to be alone with him again. Isobel waited until the king's attention was elsewhere, and maneuvered herself away from the ball. Edmund understood what she planned, without needing to be told. He followed a moment later. Neither of them saw the king watching them suspiciously. 

She tossed him a coy smile, picking up her skirts and darting up the stairs. Reaching the family quarters, Isobel spun around, pressing her back to the wall as Edmund approached, his gaze heated.

“So, you dressed as Robin Hood. What have you planned to steal tonight?” She giggled. He smirked. 

“I think you know.” And he was looming over her, hands braced on either side of her head. 

“Then take it, for the lord of the manor has left his castle unguarded,” Isobel said.

He bent his head, kissing her carefully, and then with more intensity as Isobel rose up on her toes to direct his kisses the way she wanted them. He slid his hands under her thighs, lifting her up against the wall as their mouths never left each other. At that moment, she felt more passion in Edmund's arms than she had for her husband in months. With her legs wrapped around his waist, she ground her wet slit on the hardness she felt under his costume hose until they both came with little gasps and shudders. 

“Take me to my chamber before someone sees,” Isobel gasped. He carried her the few feet to her rooms, kicking the door shut behind him before tossing her lightly on the bed. He stared down at her for a moment, hand paused in the act of undressing himself. 

“What?” Isobel asked. With her dress bunched up around the tops of her thighs, and her breast heaving and her hair spread out over and above her wings, maybe she looked beautiful to him. She unlaced the front of her dress and let it fall open, aside from her corset, leaving her bare to his gaze. “Stop gawking, Your Grace, and bow down to your queen.”

And bow down he did. He paid homage over and over as she tossed her head on the pillows and cried in ecstasy. She was just returning the favor when the door flew open and a young boy burst in, stumbling over his own feet.

“Isobel, you're missing the puppets!” The door was never locked, normally she had a guard or manservant outside but everyone was at the celebration and she was not supposed to be alone. She hadn't counted on curious little brothers untrained in palace protocol.

“William! Do not barge in on a queen, ye ask to be announced!” She attempted to cover herself with the blankets while her brother clapped his palm over his eyes. He began to wheeze anxiously. Isobel threw on a robe and tied it as her brother's breath kept catching in his fragile lungs. She hurried over and wrapped her arms around him from behind, making deep, calming breaths. “With me, sweetheart, breathe with me. One...two...three...and in,and out. That's right, good job.” 

His breathing returned to normal as it synced with hers. 

“The Duke was hurtin' ye, sister.”

“He wasnae,” Isobel said gently. “My Lord York and I were playing grownup games,making each other feel good, because we like each other.”

“Ye mean ye were layin' taegether as lovers,” William accused. “But ye are married tae the king.”

“Aye,” Isobel said. He glared at her in disgust and pulled away. 

“Then ye are _betraying your husband_.”

“When I married the king, I was too young to know what I wanted and I wasn't allowed much of a choice. I didn't know anything about anything, including that I might fall for someone else, that I might need things the king can't give me. Sometimes we try to make plans, and it doesn't work out the way we wanted, so we have to negotiate. I don't want to hurt my husband because I love him, so I pretend I don't care for his brother as much, the same way I pretend to be Catholic when you and I are Protestant. ”

The boy got a sly look in his eyes. 

“I'm goon tae tell.”

“Here's your first lesson.” Isobel patted his hair. “Ye don't warn someone that you're going to tell on them, ye jus' do it.” But as soon as he'd run off, she dashed to her vanity, using a brush to cover her body in scented powder. Edmund helped her back into her costume, and cleaned himself up with water from a bowl while she fixed her hair and cosmetics, both cursing under their breaths. 

"It's not his fault," Isobel said, "he doesn't understand we could both be executed for this." By the time her husband found them, they were strolling casually down the hall, speaking of nothing in particular.

“I very much would like a copy of Tam Lin,” Edmund said smoothly. “The stories of your country are so fascinating to me.”

“There you are, giggling by yourselves again,” Henry said. His voice had a dangerous edge. “What is this talk of books? I was unaware my sweet little Isobel now enjoys reading.” 

“I help her with academics. You know she used to struggle, but she wants to learn things. We do maths, science, we practice her reading. That's all, it's nothing.”

“Oh?” his brother sneered. “And what have the two of you been reading? I know it's more than Scottish fairy tales. You and your little Protestant cabal, with our sister,and her uncle and all the rest of you _Lutherans_.”

“So what if it is? She has the right to know the Gospels for herself, as we all do,” Edmund cried. 

“She is my _wife_. Choose you this day whom you will serve but as for _me and my house, we will serve THE LORD_.” 

“How can she _choose_ if she does not _know_?” Edmund drew himself up to his full height, which was now as tall as his older brother. The mounting threat of violence frightened Isobel, who was frozen in place. “You decide everything for her, like she's your child!” 

“It was desire for knowledge above Adam which caused Eve to damn the world. It was meddling in things which she had no need for knowledge of. If there's anything my wife wants to learn, _I_ will help her as I have always been her guide. You, brother, have been the snake in my garden for far too long. Begone before I'm forced to draw my sword!”

With a thunderous glare, Edmund stormed out, leaving Isobel alone and terrified with the king.  
Isobel finally managed to speak up, her voice high and anxious. 

“But why burn so many people? They have done nothing except follow their own consciences?”

“Do you know what _cauterize_ means?” Henry asked. “It means burning away the rot and disease in a wound, allowing it to close and heal. Thanks to my father and his lust driven heresy, England is diseased. My fires are cleansing fires. And even my queen must learn her lesson in order for our family to heal the way I intend to heal this island.”

“Your Majesty!” Isobel fell to her knees, face buried in her hands. She trembled violently. Would he kill her for this? He'd never laid a hand on her before, and she didn't think he would hit her, but she shook, and wept all the same at the loss of his pride in her, and his good opinion of her. 

“Hush, darling. It was never your fault.” The king stroked her hair soothingly. “ You're a simple girl, uneducated in religious matters and my stepmother and her friends led you astray, as they led my siblings astray. We'll fix this. First, I've ordered all the heretical materials which are a temptation to your innocent soul removed from our household and destroyed. You'll have no books I haven't examined first. You will feel better when you're no longer prey to such confusion. Second, you will spend the rest of the season in prayer and contemplation at a convent, rededicating yourself to following the example of the Blessed Virgin. You will speak no more of Luther, and Calvin, and lean not on your own understanding, for you _have no understanding_.”

“Thank ye, Your Majesty,” Isobel sniffled, relieved by his leniency, and that she was only being accused of mild heresy and not _also_ adultery. He still had no proof of anything else. Perhaps William had mangled the tale he told, or Henry thought his holy mission a priority over the suspicion he was a cuckold. “I'm grateful for this opportunity to repent of my foolishness, and to earn back your trust.” And yet, it was treacherous, and disobedient, but a spark of cold fury began to grow in her heart. 

**Hampton Court, December, 1558**

“Your Majesty.” Queen Isobel and her two daughters, in dresses of black silk and black lace mantillas, presented themselves to the new king with deep curtsies. Edmund stepped down from the dais to kiss his brother's widow's hand, wanting to encourage the court to continue to respect and love her as he did. It wouldn't be difficult, Isobel's beauty and charm had made her quite popular during her own reign, helping greatly to counteract how vastly _unpopular_ her husband had eventually become. 

“Dear sister. Thank you for joining us for the holiday, although with the circumstances, we would have understood.” The queen was pregnant again, a miracle considering her late husband's illness. She appeared quite far along and he wished...but no, the math didn't line up. What-what was he going to do if the child emerged male? Instead of reigning as king, he would sit as regent, a consolation prize he'd have no choice but to graciously accept. He could not hurt Isobel's children. 

“And are ye quite recovered from your extended stay in the Tower?” She asked softly. 

“Yes, thank you. It's nothing a few good meals and the ability to sleep in my own bed again won't cure.” In other words, even though his “cell” had been the largest, cleanest and best kept (he'd been allowed a couple of footmen as well) he would never be over what it felt like to be imprisoned as a traitor to the crown, to his family, waiting every day for the death sentence to come down. _Knowing_ that this was a place people were sent to die, to languish until the world forgot them, or to be dragged out and executed before the public. It was where his mother had been killed, he could see the spot from his window. When they'd come to release him, he'd thought they were coming to bring him to the chopping block. And he would never sleep in his own bed at Hatfield again, he was the king and going to bed had suddenly become much more complicated. The how, the where, and...with whom. “Come, join us for dinner.”

Christmas this year would be a subdued affair, only family and their most trusted and high ranking courtiers, quiet music, little dancing and a hall adorned in black bunting. It was more funeral reception than Christmas party. 

“Girls, you may play until it's time to eat but don't leave this room. Bessie, watch your sister,” Isobel said. She' d be able to see them from the dais and they were good girls who did as they were told. 

“Yes, Mother.” The children ran off, dodging about between the legs of adults. They'd barely known their father, and possibly had only the vaguest idea of the situation they were now in, their place in the line of succession on shaky ground now that they were fatherless. Their father hadn't wanted them. And when Harry had been feeling emasculated by his mysterious disease, and he was disoriented and easily angered, Edmund had once overheard him berating his wife (who took the time to personally nurse him) for her “failure”and her “conspiracy of women plotting behind his back”. 

The queen sat down heavily, flushed with the exertion of too much time on her feet. A servant quickly brought over a goblet of water. 

“I've heard from my brother Malcolm,” Isobel remarked quietly. “Now that he's married, he intends to return to Scotland and claim his throne. I would wish him all the best in that, but it means he will also come for yours.”

“Placing you in a very awkward position,” Edmund murmured. 

“Aye. He's extended an invitation to Scottish court, promised me lands and protection, titles for the girls. He has said, he might even be able to find a new husband for me. I'm sure he believes that as a woman and a bastard, I'm not much of a political threat. Pity is something he can afford when he does not fear me. ”

“Perhaps you should accept,” Edmund said. King Malcolm's failure to fear his sister showed that he really didn't know her at all. Men confronted, they beat and stabbed, but poison, everyone said, was a woman's game. In the end, it had been an act of mercy, not cowardice, but ruthless all the same. “You've fulfilled your duty to this family, you're free to choose your own way.” 

Isobel stared down at her drink, brown eyes deliberately avoiding his gaze. 

“I have lived in England for sixteen years. That's older than I was when I first arrived and- I love Scotland dearly, I'll always be a Scot first, but I have come to love...England as much. The thought of choosing between my brother and England, of being parted from...England...Oh, Edmund, it hurts too much.”

“Then stay,” he said boldly. “Stay and continue to be _England's_ beloved queen. We've waited our whole lives for this, we've earned it. Stay, help me heal England's wounded heart, and be my wife.”

**Epilogue  
Hampton Court, December, 1562**

The new royal heir was baptized at Christmas, with his sisters carrying him in the procession while his parents sat in the gallery, to avoid drawing attention away from the child. Elizabeth and Annabel did an excellent job at being solemn and mature during the ceremony, twelve year old Bessie had been practicing with a doll for several days beforehand. Little four year old Margaret fell asleep, thumb firmly in her mouth, in the arms of Lady Hertford who had been assigned to carry her. King Malcolm of Scotland, named as the child's godfather, sent a proxy to fulfill his duties. King Edmund knew his wife was trying not to feel disappointed that her brother, who she hadn't seen in years, didn't think he was safe in her adopted country. 

Edmund hadn't exactly behaved graciously toward his rival for the throne. He had waited patiently his entire life to receive his birthright, his cousin had a country already, why wasn't he happy with ruling it? Why wouldn't he leave them alone? 

Perhaps if they hadn't murdered his father and grandfather. But it wasn't as if that could be _helped_ in the circumstances. Queen Isobel leaned over, around the four year old dozing in her lap and touched his arm. 

“Ye are lost in thought, husband. They are waiting for your Christmas toast.”

He must remember to listen to her advice, she had been queen for sixteen years, he'd been king, so far,four years.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Edmund announced, rising from his chair and holding his goblet aloft. “Queen Isobel and I welcome you all to our celebration of the birth of Our Lord, and of the baptism of our own long awaited son and heir. Let us all rejoice in new beginnings and the return of the light! Now let's eat, drink and be merry!”

Isobel retired early along with the two younger girls (they had stayed up to watch the marvelously entertaining puppet show Edmund had commissioned for the event). When Edmund finally made his own formal exit, he was mildly drunk, feeling warm, affectionate and quite sentimental. He wandered off through the mistletoe, and holly and drunken courtiers to the private family quarters to find his wife. She was in the nursery, sneaking time with their son. He watched her, standing by the window in her shift and silk dressing gown, showing their son the view of the snow covered gardens, and singing softly to him in her native language. He only heard her speak it this much in moments when she thought no one was listening and she'd often stop if she suspected anyone other than her “bairns” could hear. His wife had paid a price for her assimilation. 

The queen gently placed her wriggling, fur wrapped bundle in the bassinet. Straightening up, she turned to smile at her husband, and pull him over by the hand. She was as beautiful as ever, more so having come into her own as a twice married mother of five and a queen. After years of waiting, she was finally his and he was hers, they ruled England together and nothing would stand in their way again. 

“He's exhausted from all the celebrating, but I dinnae want him to end the holiday without seeing his king.”

“Hello, my beautiful baby,” Edmund whispered. The baby had been changed out of his baptismal clothes and into a wool gown and knitted hat and slippers. “You ought to be resting as well. I know you no longer like having your babies out of your sight but we have a massive staff of servants for a reason.” 

The birth had been a difficult one, which people had blamed on the queen's age, at nearly thirty two, tongues had begun to wag that there would be no second chance at a male Tudor heir. The Privy Council had pressured him to name his young stepdaughter as heir, for if he didn't, since Eleanor had died without producing any heirs, the crown automatically fell once again to his Scottish cousin. That would be worse, they'd said, than being ruled by a woman. 

“Thank ye, again,” Isobel said, “For agreeing to name him after my father.”

“Nine Henrys were quite enough. And I've never liked my own name.” Edmund let the baby wrap a tiny finger around his own and cling to it. His son, his precious heir, looked up at his father, his eyes big and trusting. “Happy Christmas, Prince James.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think probably the world would have changed a lot more than I changed it here, had Mary Tudor been a boy. 
> 
> No, I didn't provide a solution to the mystery, because I sort of feel like it never does get solved. But who do *you* suspect? 
> 
> Isobel's accent is much thicker here than in any of my other "Isobel" stories, because she's really the only main Scottish character, so much of it is from an English pov and I hoped to emphasize that she's out of place and a little "foreign". 
> 
> I've added the "cousin incest" tag just in case, since technically the people involved in the love triangle are cousins and, there's someone out there going "Uh, she knows they're cousins, right?" Yes, I have known that all along, thank you. But many people in the Real Life version of this story ended up married to their cousins, so I don't honestly feel like it needs as much of a warning as the non canonical brother/sister stuff. 
> 
> [A Tudor Feast at Christmas](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1dWFv-luiHU) docu , although it's slightly the wrong period and then there's this one [A Night at Hampton Court](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ijicTfoNawU&t=30s)  
> Not that I actually made use of most of that information...but it's a fun bonus.  
> Guess what? There's actually a [candle](https://sihayaandcompany.com/collections/sihaya-company-candles/products/tudor-collection-vii-the-court-in-splendour) evoking the Tudor court at Christmas. ETA this is now sold out as far as I know.


	8. Sugar  pt1  (James I/George Villiers,  Dirty Talk,  Daddy Kink, Polyamory, College AU,   Modern AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A college student falls for a married professor after a late night Meet Cute. 
> 
> Inspired by the Ao3 Tag Generator prompt "inexperienced supermarket fluff" Modern American AU.

_Guys my age don't know how to treat me_  
Don't know how to treat me, don't know how to treat me  
Guys my age don't know how to touch me  
Don't know how to love me good  
Guys my age don't know how to keep me  
Don't know how to keep me, don't know how to keep me  
Guys my age don't know how to touch me  
Don't know how to love me good

“Do you know anything about potatoes?” He had the most adorable way of pronouncing 'about' and 'potatoes', too, with this like, _lilt_ to his voice. He was on the tall side, with expensively cut graying brown hair, fair skin, and an elegantly trimmed goatee. His charcoal wool coat, his matching pants and leather loafers were finely tailored and high quality, probably worth two months of the average millenial's rent. 

George knew clothes, okay? Plus, the bottle of wine in his shopping basket had a label which made George want to cry just looking at it. Hottie McSilverFox held up two different bags of potatoes, one of red and one of white. Gold glinted off his ring finger. 

Dammit. Married. Girls always said the good ones were all gay or married. In 2017, the good ones could be both married _and_ gay. And this guy was - they were probably the only people in the store who didn't work there, since it was ten pm, and there were only like two employees left and they looked all 'don't talk to me unless you're ready to pay for your stuff'. So the guy might not be talking to him for any other reason than they were both in the produce section. George was only looking at the fruits and vegetables in order to wistfully dream of what he'd buy when he got paid. 

“Which ones are best for mashing?”

“I don't know, everyone says sweet potatoes are healthier?” George ventured. “Are you making a savory thing or a dessert? Sweet potatoes can go either way. Why don't you buy both, pre mashed so you're not taking as much of a risk?” He walked over to the section of the deli where they sold all the premade side dishes. The guy actually followed him, like he thought George knew what he was doing. George sensed he was also, subtly, politely, being checked out. He wished he was wearing something nicer than his post dance rehearsal thin sweatpants and hoodie. Then again, the sweatpants were _super_ thin, so that wouldn't exactly dissuade an interested guy from looking. George reached for the plastic cartons of pre made mashed potatoes, angling his toned body in the most flattering way. He was rewarded with another lingering up and down glance. 

“Thanks, that's an excellent idea. I'm James Stuart, by the way. I go by Jim.” They shook hands, Jim's were well manicured, it was unlikely he'd ever done a day of manual labor. Really, neither had George, he came from a Nice Middle Class Family and his day job was teaching classical ballet to little girls. Jim held the handshake and eye contact kind of...longer than normal. George wondered what those hands would feel like touching the rest of him. 

“No,” George said. “That is not your real name.”

“I get this all the time, it's spelled differently from the actor, it's S-T-U-A-R-T, it's spelled like the-”

“The British king?”

“How'd you guess?” Jim asked. “History major?”

“ Dance major at Lesley, I had a rehearsal for our Christmas showcase tonight. It's just, I get ribbed by my classmates cause my name is uh-my name is George Villiers.” Here we go, people either didn't get it or they wouldn't let it go. And Cambridge was a town filled with over educated Anglophiles. 

“Wow.” He had a sexy laugh, low and gravely and masculine. 

“I was safe for most of my life, like, why would I know, until I got to college, and got into queer history courses. Everyone's queer in college and everyone wants to talk about it and in this town, everyone's also a history nerd. You can't throw a whatever without hitting an expert in some obscure history thingy. Are you a professor? ”

“I lecture at the Divinity School, during the rest of my time I write non fiction about religious history and theology. I just got back from an academic conference on obscure history thingies in Toronto.”

“Are you Canadian? Because the accent-” 

“No,” Jim chuckled. “That's another one people ask about. I was born in Scotland, moved here as a child with my uncle. Are you from New England?”

“Orange County, in California,” George said. “I know it'd be easier to get work as a dancer in LA, I wanted to go somewhere far from my parents.” 

“It's not a good relationship?” Jim asked.

“They don't approve of what they refer to as my 'lifestyle choices'. Dad thinks the ballet only makes it worse, even though I played all the sports he ever wanted me to play and it's not like I didn't like sports too. I _do_.”

“Being queer isn't a choice,” Jim said. He angled his head in a way that forced George to look him in the eye. “ God made us this way for a reason. But you seem like a smart, confident kid so I think you know that. Your generation is so much _better_ about self acceptance.”

“How did your uncle react?” George asked. Jim was queer, hewas queer hewasqueer, hell _yes_. “Does he- did he know?”

“Of course I was terrified he'd hate me, but my uncle was actually a pretty live and let live guy. If what you wanted didn't interfere with what he wanted, he didn't care. He was cool with it, he never judged and he helped me find support and answers to the questions I had. He even left our church when they tried to make him choose between me and them. I was lucky. I didn't realize how lucky, my family sheltered me from the most horrifying parts of the AIDs crisis and the bashing. ”

“I don't even remember much about the AIDs crisis,” George admitted. “I was born in 1997. I know, you're probably thinking 'I have email addresses older than him' and-”

“No,” Jim said. “I was thinking how glad I am I can safely ask you to get a drink with me some time. And who keeps an email address for two decades?”

“Oh. Okay. Yeah, I'd like that too. ” George flushed. He hoped it was in the attractive way and not random red splotches all over his face. 

“I don't mean to be rude, but is that all you're getting?” There was concern in his voice, not pity, fatherly concern. It had been a long time since anyone noticed or cared that George wasn't eating well. All his friends were equally broke, or dancers with the inevitable weird food issues or both. 

George's shopping basket had nothing but packages of ramen and one single serve bottle of milk. He only had three dollars, and with ramen at 4 for a dollar, he could get a week's worth if he used his meal card to eat in the cafeteria for breakfast and skipped lunch. He couldn't even afford McDonald's, since there was always sales tax and anyway, it would kill his diet more easily and more quickly than ramen ever would and sap his energy for hours after. 

“Um. Yeah.”

“I can't let you,” Jim said earnestly. He threw a package of beef strips for stir fry ($3.99 on sale) in George's cart then pulled five dollars out of his wallet. “Go pick out a couple cans of vegetables. At least if you're going to eat that, you'll have some protein and vitamins.”

George did as he was told, because he wasn't stupid enough to turn down free food. It wouldn't really be free, Jim would want something, the world didn't work any other way, it's just that George was so tired and so hungry. After paying the cashier, who clearly wanted them gone so he could finally close, they walked out to the parking lot. The temperature had plummeted while they were shopping, George regretted thinking the body heat from all that dancing around would effectively replace a good winter coat. Jim raised an eyebrow at his shivering.

“Isn't Lesley in a bit of a bad neighborhood? Please, let me drop you off.” Jim was already moving toward a sleek black town car with a uniformed driver holding one of the back doors open. George really didn't want to walk all the way to the T stop and waste a spot on his Charlie card, or have to call his friend to come pick him up after his shift at Anthropologie, and have to stand around waiting in the dark. What was wrong with depending on the kindness of strangers? _It might get him killed_ , he considered as he climbed in after Jim. 

The inside of the car was toasty warm, and the seats felt like a feather bed to his aching muscles. Jim fiddled with some buttons, dimming the lights, bringing up soft, relaxing music. 

“Do you need the wifi?” Jim asked. "If you want some water, there's a mini fridge between the seats." The driver pulled out into late night Cambridge traffic, headed in the direction of Lesley University. 

“No, thanks. Wow, I feel like I'm in the Batmobile,” George said, laughing nervously. He didn't dare ask where a college professor and mid level non fiction author got all this bling. Jim just smiled, like he knew exactly what George wasn't asking him. 

“I like this music? Peter and the Wolf, I was in a production when I was little.” George said it to break the silence as they entered his neighborhood. There wasn't much time left to find out what Jim really wanted from him. The question was how and when and who would bring it up first.

“I figured you'd know it,” Jim said. 

“I was Peter, since I was one of two boys in the class.” He leaned forward, quirking an eyebrow. “Are _you_ the wolf here, Professor Stuart?”

“First of all, it's Dr. Stuart.”

“No, but, nothing comes for free, do you want my hand, or my mouth?” His voice was hoarse from the cold, he probably didn't sound sexy at all, but like a tired, nervous kid. George was as near to being in Jim's lap as he could get and he dared to put his hand on the other man's crotch. There was definitely _interest._

“I want exactly what you think I want,” Jim said. “We're both grownups here, we need to be honest. But I don't want it like this. I don't want you to feel obliged because I bought you food and gave you a ride home.” 

Since Jim was being such a gentleman, George kind of did want to blow him after all. It's not like he didn't already really really want to, but if Jim was secretly a creep, he'd be playing right into his hands by acting on it. He thought about, then discarded, the idea of agreeing to do it but only for $50. If Jim was a creep, well, he was obviously rich and the money wouldn't matter to him so George would still be the one getting taken advantage of. 

“Come see my show this weekend, we can get to know each other more after,” he said instead. “I can leave two tickets for you at Will Call.” 

“I'd like that.”

“Let me give you my number.” George typed it into Jim's phone when he held it out. This close, Jim smelled amazing, woodsy and herbal, smoky and European. Maybe a Tom Ford scent? George just smelled like deodorant and the contrast embarrassed him. He felt the urge to run away. “So um, thanks, and I'd really like to get that drink with you after the show?” 

“See you then,” Jim said softly as George got out. George watched the car not moving before he realized its occupants waited patiently to make sure he got in the dorm safely. And since he had two choices, to go inside and go to bed, or to run back to the car and throw himself at Jim, he picked the more sensible one, and went inside. But he couldn't help wishing they'd met in less weird circumstances, so he wouldn't feel any hesitation about dropping to his knees on the floor of that car. Even if the guy was married. 

Jim watched the building door close behind his new friend. He had read somewhere that if your body chemistry was perfectly aligned with someone else's, you'd be attracted to their smell. The perfect person for you, at least physically, would always smell good to you. George's deodorant didn't quite cover the scent of sweat and yet that only made Jim more intrigued. George still smelled good to him, and that led to thoughts of George working up a sweat in various attractive and enjoyable ways.He was a bit disappointed that nothing had happened, but he also wanted to slap himself for _being_ disappointed, he knew anything which could have happened between them tonight would have been unethical and creepy and _wrong_. But he did want. He wanted to the point of knowing that until he saw George again, he'd be unable to concentrate on anything else except the kid leaning towards him, full wet lips parted, dirty blond tendrils escaping from his bun, huskily _promising so many things_.


	9. Sugar pt2 (James I/George Villiers,  dirty talk,  daddy kink, polyamory  etc)

“Why do we have to see a ballet?” Chaz asked, shifting impatiently in his seat. “ _The Nutcracker_ sounds like a torture device.”

“You're old enough to stay home alone,” his mother Anne reminded him. “You didn't have to come. You want to get a look at the ballerina your dad has a crush on, don't you.”

“Definitely,” Chaz replied. He glanced in the program. “George Villiers is playing The Cavalier. He's from California, and he's been studying dance since the age of four. There's no pic.”

“He's not a ballerina and I don't have a crush,” Jim said. It was a full blown physical obsession, not a crush. "Does he even want me, at my age?" He should be proud he'd made it to his age,consider the track record of recent Stuart heirs but George was barely more than a teenager. 

“You're still a good looking man and some young guys are looking for what you have to offer. So, tell us again how you met him?” Anne asked. 

“We were the only customers left in the supermarket. He was there...in the produce section...and I was confused about the potatoes.”

“Yes, I remember you were going to cook your own birthday dinner, which I still find ridiculous,” Anne said. 

“I was intrigued, so I did the only thing I could think of, I bought him meat.”

“Is that an English idiom I'm not familiar with?” Anne asked. “I don't understand, what does that mean, you bought him meat?”

“Is that a sex move?” Chaz asked eagerly.

“I thought he was so cute I literally paid for his groceries. And that's the story of how Jim Stuart got Nutcracker tickets. Both of you, stop trying to Google him.” 

“Yes, Charles,” his wife said innocently, “Put your phone away.” The lights dimmed, the music rose and the curtain gently pulled back to reveal a candy colored painted backdrop representing an 18th century European palace. The audience was already falling under the spell of the music when The Cavalier entered, escorting Clara in her nightgown. 

“Dad, he's hot,” Chaz whimpered with the squeak of a teenage boy encountering a sexuality crisis. George had a dancer's legs, a sort of sensual lope to his walk and his white tights left little to the imagination, showing off his perfect arse and everything else he had to offer (a woman sitting in the row in front of them mumbled _goddamn_ ). George had looked gorgeous to Jim while exhausted and standing under florescent lighting, made up and on stage he was breathtaking. During his energetic solo, and performance of the famous _pas de deux_ with the Sugar Plum Fairy, he proved he had grace, power and technique as well. 

“Go get him, tiger,” his wife said after the show. 

“Yeah, Dad, go kiss him,” Chaz teased. 

George's roommate Rob poked his head around the dressing room door as George was changing. 

“Your rich old dude is here. He's not bad for an old dude. Is this like a sugar daddy thing? Cause you're a luscious little hottie who could walk out right now and get it with any old guy in the audience. What's so special about this one?”

“I don't know,”George said impatiently. “I like, I like him. He's really super smart, and has cool stories." _and he talked to me like I'm smart too and what I have to say is important._ "And then he said he wouldn't touch me because it would be wrong, and now I wanna blow him even more.”

“Hope he comes back here to 'get his program signed'. Hey, lemme fix your hair.” He sprayed George's head with cherry vanilla Batiste and fluffed away the powder, repining the bun while George borrowed a Stila lipgloss from one of the girls' stations. It had some subtle glitter in it but he thought he looked refreshed and totally kissable. Underneath the short satin faux military style top, his tights were really a bodysuit, and he folded it down to his waist and reached for a t shirt. George heard a hum of appreciation behind him. It was one thing to know you looked hot, and another, more delightfully shivery feeling, to feel sexy because someone you were into was looking at you with obvious want. 

“I'll leave you two alone,” Rob said slyly. George turned around.

“I didn't think you'd actually show.”

“I couldn't not see you again,” Jim said. 

“Did you like the show? We only do Act Two since we're college students and don't have the budget for the party scene or the magic forest.”

“It was a lovely adaptation. Of course, I found your parts the most enchanting, you're a genuinely talented young man. I was so entranced I stopped thinking about all the things I want to do to you. ”

“Oh.” George gulped. _Jim found his 'parts' enchanting._ Jim smiled, leaned closer. 

“Am I coming on too strong, George? Do you need me to stop?” 

“No, I like you...a lot. I want what you want.” And they'd both done favors for each other now, so they were even, right? They were even and it didn't have to get weird. He was maybe ready for this. He decided to make the first move, he got into Jim's space and kissed him hard. George pulled back, smiling hopefully. 

“Look at your pretty smile,” Jim murmured, tracing George's mouth with his index finger. “However, it's not a race, we can take our time.”

“I'm not a child or a virgin, I won't freak out.” George sat on the makeup table, it was cheap and his muscles were not just for show, so it creaked under his thighs, but he wasn't an especially big guy, so he figured it'd hold for now. He tugged Jim closer by his waist. He was nervous, and turned on, and he didn't want Jim to go away. “Not a tease, either.”

“Somehow, I didn't think you were,” Jim said. He murmured in George's ear, “But we're not doing this like college boys. I'm going to strip you and lay you out on a comfortable bed and then I'm going to find out how you work.”

“I want you to touch me, _please_.” George pressed Jim's hand over his hardening cock, Jim massaged it with a practiced palm. Oh. Oh. George couldn't stop trembling in his arms. 

“I won't leave any part of you untouched, I promise. I've been dreaming about getting you out of these tights since I saw you in them. Wondering if you're loud or quiet, if you like it gentle or rough.”

“I don't know what to do,” George moaned, burying his face in Jim's shirt as he came in his tights. He should be embarrassed, but he wasn't, he could not feel more shameless. “I can be however you want! Just take me home.”

“Well, I can't do that,” Jim said apologetically, stroking George's back slowly. “But give me a few minutes and I can get us dinner reservations and a hotel room.”


	10. The  Rule (surprise bonus chapter,    James  I/George Villiers,  light  Master/slave,  begging,  light spanking, light orgasm denial,  sex toy, slight gender play)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will George get James to break his rule?  
> Not "Sugar"verse, this is the regular historical 'verse, a continuation of "Betwixt God'n Me".
> 
> Happy New Year, guys

“See, this dance,” George explained, gliding along the floor of the royal bedchamber while James followed with far less technically adept movements, “each part can be performed by either a man or a woman. It's perfect for two men.”

They were both, James could admit, a wee bit drunk at this point, having just come from a banquet. 

“If there was a place two men could dance together.”

“There are,” George said. “But a king cannot go to them. Perhaps he could bring them _to him_ instead?”

“You want a party? I'll consider it,” James chuckled. Planning and hosting his first gathering as the king's _favorite_ would be a beneficial experience in George's training as a courtier. 

“When we have our wedding, and you present me as your queen, we dance together like this.”

“And no one will notice if I stumble,” James said, happily playing along, “they won't be able to take their eyes off you.” He would love for the whole world to see George dance in all his grace and joy.But first, he'd need to have something more than a nightshirt on and George could not be naked as he currently was. Not that the audience wouldn't appreciate it as much as he did, but there were laws. 

“And it's time for the consummation. We have beautiful new sleeping clothes to protect our modesty. I'm frightened, because you'll be the first, but you're so careful and soon I forget my shame and the presence of all those other people...watching us in our intimacy. We become so passionate, you're fucking me so well, everyone blushes and averts their eyes, but now they all know I am yours and you are mine.”

The images George painted stirred James's cock. George had maneuvered the king to the edge of the bed, where he gently pressed his shoulders until James sat. George perched on his lap, smiling softly before burying his face in the crook of James's neck, his favorite place to “hide”. James stroked the silky skin of his lover's hip. Would he want “master” or “dad” tonight? Or would they keep things simple and just make love? 

George's fantasy was filthy, but in the midst, there was an intriguing innocence to it. In his most secret and intimate fantasy, George imagined himself as pure and untainted. He had also imagined himself as someone who could be openly introduced to the world as James's loved and valued partner. James had suspected that due to George's precocious knowledge of sex and sodomy, he hadn't exactly been a virgin when he first shared the royal bed. He clearly regretted some of those experiences, James didn't want to hear the details (or speculate which stories George had told him for erotic entertainment had any truth to them) and he couldn't change the past anyway. But, he could set plans in motion to one day, make George as close to an official consort as he could get. If they lasted long enough, if George proved himself trustworthy with his king's heart. 

“Master, I was bad today.”

“Hmm? And what did you do, sweetheart?” So, it was to be that sort of an evening. 

“I cheated at cards, and I was rude to several ladies,” George confessed, shifting endearingly on his lap. Little vixen knew what that did to James's cock. 

“Then you know you need to be punished,” James scolded. “That was not behavior worthy of a gentleman.” He considered their options, not in the mood tonight to dole out the whipping his young lover might be craving. “Bend over with your elbows on the bed.” 

He gave George's pert bottom five hard slaps, hoping the intensity would make up for his lack of interest in prolonging it. It certainly had an effect, George had grown harder during his discipline, prick standing out pink and proud. 

“Go get your toy and the oil.” There was a large pink handprint on one cheek, James bent down and kissed it. George giggled and snuggled back against him, James tickled his flat belly. “Were you not told to do something, brat?”

“I go, I go, see how I go,” George insisted, retrieving the box with his toy off the floor, and hurrying over to the chest of drawers where they now kept a small bottle of oil. James lay back against the pillows, touching himself as he watched the boy prepare. 

“You will not come until I say,” James added sternly. George shot him a look of exaggerated horror and James laughed. He grunted, and tugged on his own hot member as George brought his own self to increasing heights of pleasure with the toy while struggling to obey Master and not finish. Against his better judgment, James began to wish he was the one making George whine, and moan and writhe. He was _jealous of a piece of wood_. No, he didn't care anymore, he would no longer deny himself what his boy had repeatedly offered, he would give in to the temptation, _he would sin._ James crawled down the bed to his lover, and unceremoniously yanked the toy out. George let out a pitiful whimper and reached for it. James threw it across the bed. 

“Yes or no,” he said, pushing George's face into the mattress. 

“ _Yes_ ,” George gasped. “But I want to see you, Master!”  
He let his lover turn around in his arms and wrap firm thighs around his waist (oh how he loved those thighs) before James pushed into him. And there was no better feeling in the world. He had forgotten it could be like this, so hot and tight, like a woman but not like a woman at all. George's face screwed up in pain and James's heart clenched for just a second, they'd made the mistake of forgetting that the toy had been modeled on James in a flaccid state. He was bigger when erect, and still so excited by George that he was _always_ big. George was a brave lad, taking it without complaint. But once they adjusted to the surprise, George was the sheath designed perfectly for his sword. His pounding thrusts drove them forward until George's head, with its long, silky curls whose color reflected the moonlight, hung over the edge of the bed. He put every bit of love he had for George into his efforts. And James was coming hard as he heard his boy begging, wailing.

“Please let me, Master, please please pleaaaase let me!”

“ _Come_.” And George obeyed like a trained puppy, going off all over himself.

When they had caught their breaths, George wiped their bodies down with his drawers and then threw the garment on the floor. 

“You don't have to clean up,” James yawned. He tucked George under his arm, covering them both with the blanket because his little love was shivering. 

“I _am_ still a Gentleman of the Bedchamber,” George replied, nuzzling his ear. “It's my job. Sort of. Do you-did you- was this everything you wanted, husband?” 

“More than I knew,” James said, realizing belatedly what petname he'd automatically answered to. And it wasn't only, he thought, from so many years of marriage to someone else. He wanted to play husband to this impossible, naughty, strange, boy who was so beautifully graceful and simultaneously couldn't get out of his own way. It was a new mode for their relationship, a new intimacy. He was beyond pleased and didn't regret a moment of it. George was open and vulnerable to him in a different way, looking up at him, nervously biting his lower lip. “Now that you've received me as a wife would, do you think you'll be happy in marriage to me?”

“Oh yes, sire."

Later, when those same men who had gifted George to the king in the first place (although of course, James was not meant to know about their machinations) caught up with George they demanded to know how he was progressing in keeping the king distracted. If he was finding out information they could put aside for the future, if they needed weapons against him. This was not the plan they had used to recruit him, they'd only said the king required entertainment, romantic companionship that would come with social advancement. His mother had come up with the original idea, and George had always trusted his mother before. George was becoming aware that he might be their pawn, an ambitious, foolish child who had fallen for the carrot and was now getting the stick. But not in the fun way, like his playtime with James. 

“I'm sorry,” George said. “I can't get him to incriminate himself.”

“After all the time and money we've wasted on you, and you've failed us.”

“What can I say?” George shrugged. “King James is a better man than you thought he was.” James was no saint, but he was a good man at heart, better than George and did not deserve to have his feelings used against him. George was not a virtuous man, but he had never been loved by a man the way James loved him, no man he'd ever been with before had loved him at all. And James would protect him now, and so George would protect James in all the best ways he knew how, like his wife, like his queen would.


	11. Sugar pt3   (daddy kink,  lapdance,   mild  d/s)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> continuation of modern AU. King James is a college professor, Buckingham is a ballet major, they're headed off on a date.

Jim went down to call one of his cars, while George cleaned up, changed into street clothes and slipped his earring back in. He texted Rob. 

_He made me CUM in my TIGHTS. Also taking me to Harbor Hotel._

Rob responded with _Too Much, G. But thnx telling me where send cops aftre ur serial murgered_

 _I know_ , George wrote back, _handsome princes don't show up and throw money @me_

The Boston Harbor Hotel was a bit out of their way, but Jim had booked a suite for the weekend and promised it would ultimately be worth it. George's stomach twisted up in knots at the thought of how much all that cost and what Jim might expect from him for it. But he was giddy with excitement at the same time, wanting to be alone with Jim and _do_ those things. Unless it was totally disgusting or disturbing or something and he ended up dead in the bathtub. He decided to be proactive this time, and got on his knees on the plush floor of the car as soon as it pulled into traffic. George stroked Jim's bulge through the expensive fabric of his trousers, feeling him begin to respond. He drew the zipper down, felt around, pulled Jim's cock from his underwear. He realized with some trepidation and a bit of a thrill, that Jim was _hung_. If everything worked out, he was going to feel that inside him later. 

“Oh,” Jim said, surprised and pleased as George took him in his mouth. This felt right, this was where he belonged, on his knees with Jim's hand petting his hair. It was everything they'd both been waiting for and George was quite proud of himself after. 

When they emerged at Rowe's Wharf, they were immediately hit by a chilling wind. He heard water splashing in the darkness beyond the buildings. 

“I was glad to learn you actually do own a coat,” Jim said. He took George's hand, unconcerned that anyone might see. Of course, this neighborhood, being so close to the Financial District, was relatively quiet at this time of night and in winter weather. The majority of people who did happen to be on foot were preoccupied with South Station and not there to gawk. Jim explained that the driver would leave them, and come back when requested, whenever that happened to be. 

“When I was little, I always wanted to see the Ritz Carlton,” George said. “Like in _Trumpet of the Swan_.”

“Me too. I grew up in Portland, so we did come to Boston for business and sightseeing. I stayed there with my uncle once, it was nice but a bit dated and we never got to try watercress sandwiches. Do you want to see it tomorrow?”

“No, I think some childhood fantasies should be left behind. I already know I can't turn into a bird and fly away from my life.”

“But it's a good fantasy,” Jim said. “Helped me through a lot.”

They took shelter under the soaring, well lit Rotunda, where the pavement was dry and the wind was far less aggressive. George saw the large, flat, space framed like a stage, and indulged in the instinct of every ballet dancer, he ran out into the middle and did a pirouette. He leaped, and spun through the space, ending in a breathless arabesque in fourth. He drew his bent back leg down and sank into a bow while Jim clapped and whistled. He ran back to Jim and snuggled up against the wool of his coat, getting a quick kiss on his cold cheek. 

“You were in your own world for a moment there,” Jim commented. “If you don't have an amazing career ahead of you, I'll be shocked. And-” here his voice dropped to a murmur, “I'd love a private performance later.”

“Okay.” George blushed. “Uh, where are we eating? You promised me dinner.”

“I didn't want to scare you off with Meritage, so I thought the Sea Grille. Why don't you get settled and order for us while I check us in at the hotel?” All three establishments were in the same building so it wasn't far to go.

If Jim had been worried that Meritage would intimidate George, then George wasn't sure what his standards for intimidating were. The Sea Grille waitstaff, polite but not warm or friendly, made him feel too young, and too poor, and awkward as they found him a table for two by the window. They kept watching him, as if they suspected he might be waiting for his drug dealer...or his John. The only thing George could afford on the menu was a drink (he was carded when he ordered it). One drink and maybe if Jim wanted to go halfsies on an appetizer. So he ordered the truffle fries and the tuna tartar to be on the safe side. Again, he wasn't supposed to eat fries, but they were only $9 which was stupid expensive but within his eating out budget, he figured as he rapidly calculated what it would add up to and how much he'd have left for the rest of the week. The food arrived just before Jim joined him, and Jim raised an eyebrow at the selection.

“You could order an entree,” he said. “This is all on me. The lambchops might've been more filling?”

“I don't eat baby animals. I'm just, it's late and I'm not as hungry as I thought I'd be,” George mumbled. That didn't stop Jim from looking concerned. 

“You said you were. George,-I-I'm sorry if I've made you uncomfortable. I can't help wanting to spoil a man I'd like to get to know better. But we can eat somewhere in your budget tomorrow. The last thing I want to do is push.” He sipped his drink and smiled. George had hoped he'd like it, it was called a Cider Bliss, made with Grey Goose, apple cider, and lemon, with cinnamon sugar dusted on the rim. “Let me pay tonight. And I've ordered breakfast, so I hope you'll choose to stay.”

“I'm not like, trying to be Miss Independent,” George said. “I don't know the rules here, what you expect of me, except that you want to take me to bed and I want you to top me.”

“You've mentioned that before, that you 'didn't know what to do'. You've said you're not a virgin, are you still inexperienced?”

George paused. He'd had more than a reasonable amount of sex for someone his age, but not during weekends chauffeured to five star hotels where they played smooth jazz. It was fumbling in dorm rooms and frat houses with guys who had pizza on their breath. The last relationship he'd had with an older man had ended, to put it mildly, _very badly_. So he was scared of what Jim might want for his money, and he was also scared of what he couldn't stop fantasizing about, Jim's power and experience. 

“I've always had these thoughts- they're not normal- and they're stronger than ever since I met you. I know you can give me what I need, but-”

“It's a bit scary and confusing?” Jim supplied. He gently rubbed his hand over the top of George's.

“Yeah. Um. I ask for it in bed sometimes but only a little, I don't want guys to run away. I mean, what I'm trying to say is that I'm _like him_.” And Jim understood, George saw the dawning of comprehension, as George alluded to his namesake's known bedroom habits. Take charge and teach me and take care of me. Give me a place and then put me in it. All fantasies he still couldn't voice but left him shaking apart at the thought.

“Look at me, George,” he said firmly, and George automatically did. “That's perfectly alright, I have some experience in that area and it's not abnormal. We'll figure it out together. Do you trust me?”

“I want to. But I noticed you're married and we'd be having an affair.” On the one hand, it shouldn't be his fault or his problem if Jim was married, on the other, he could be setting himself up for a lot of pain and heartbreak and hiding from angry spouses. 

Jim sighed, and set his drink down. 

“My partner and I are polyamorous. Do you know what that is?”

“That's an open marriage, right?” George ventured. 

“Basically. Well, it's a linguistic mess, is what it is, they took Latin and Greek and _smushed them together and hoped no one would notice._ Anyway, it takes many forms, from highly formalized structures to loose, casual friends with benefits, but yes, it means partners agree to allow each other to be in a relationship with more than one person at a time. Good job not confusing it with polygamy as so many people do, polyamory can be any combination of genders and orientations. I've been married to a very understanding woman for twenty years.”

“Is your wife the reason you can't bring me home?” George asked. “Like, she's fine with it as long as she doesn't have to see your partners?”

“No, our only rule is that I keep my lovers out of our marriage bed. If you stayed over, you'd sleep in a guest room. Unfortunately, and this brings me to the awkward part, you have to sign the Non Disclosure Agreement first.”

“An NDA. If you're worried I'll tell people you're gay-” George began bitterly, but Jim stopped him with a raised palm. 

“Everyone who matters knows already. This is about protecting my family. I need to ensure that you're not a reporter or a con artist before you get inside my home.”

“Why? Who the hell are you?” George demanded. 

“Have you heard of Tudor International?” And now Jim seemed somewhat embarrassed, nibbling on a fry and getting crumbs in his goatee. George automatically reached over and wiped it off with a napkin. 

“Yeah, I guess.” They were one of those giant conglomerates which seemed to own everything and they were based out of the UK. 

“Thank you. My mother and the late heir to the company were cousins and after Mum...disqualified herself... I inherited the whole shebang. I'd rather study, and write, and I really do love teaching, so I leave the day to day operations to the board. But that's my big secret, I'm sort of a billionaire.”

“Oh. Okay,” George replied dizzily. He gulped down half his drink. “Oh.”

“So, if I wanted to buy sex from a cute young guy to fulfill dark desires, I'd go do that. I could buy four boys for what I'm spending on you this weekend. I'm not looking for a prostitute and you don't owe me anything. And as for what you brought up before, we either do it or we don't but I'm not going to fight about it, it won't change whether we go to bed together tonight or not. But you need to think about what you really want and be as clear and honest with me as possible.”

“Let's go upstairs,” George said quickly. His appetite really did keep shrinking the more he anticipated being with Jim.

“Alright, I'll settle the bill and get a box for your food.”

“And uh, I gotta piss,” George admitted. Jim laughed. 

“Meet you by the front desk.”

After finishing his business, George stood by the sink with his face in his shaking hands. He still had questions about his kinks and how all of that could go down. If Jim could provide what he needed, he'd be this man's _slave_ , and they still barely knew each other. But he didn't want to run, or let this go,without knowing if Jim was the one he needed in his life.

“I hadn't noticed your earring before,” Jim said as they rode up in the elevator. “It's cute.” George self consciously touched his earlobe with its tiny silver snowflake. 

“We're supposed to act like professionals, so we're not allowed to wear jewelry on stage, that's why I wasn't wearing it before.” They held hands, but didn't speak again until the elevator opened on their floor. 

“Did you bring uh- stuff?” 

“When I made the reservation, I asked for it under special requests,” Jim said.

“You can actually do that?”

“For what they're charging, yes,” Jim said as he slid the keycard through the sensor on the door to their room. “ If it was one of my regular hotels, they'd have a list of my requirements kept in their files. Believe me, I think they've been asked for worse by much more disgusting people. We showed up late at night with no luggage, you're clearly not my son and we're clearly not here to play board games all night, all I did was ask for some pretty standard supplies.”

George's face wrinkled up nervously. 

“Look, part of having grownup sex is getting used to the idea that other people know you're having sex,” Jim said. He stepped aside to let George in the room and closed the door behind him. He chivalrously took George's coat and hung it up with his own in the closet. “We have permission to be doing this.” 

“Oh my God,” George said, gaping at the room. The suite was done in a light blue and white color scheme, clean, preppy and masculine. The huge bed had an oil painting of an 18th century ship on a storm tossed ocean hanging above it. But the most important feature, the really salient point, was that the suite was gigantic, more room than two people could possibly need. The high ceiling and row of large windows only enhanced the soaring, airy vibe. George put his leftovers in the little fridge, then explored the suite while Jim went into the bathroom to get ready for bed. The hotel staff _had_ put out a string of condoms and a little bottle of lube in addition to candy and mixed nuts, and the standard water and coffee. 

“Are you taking a Viagra?” George asked.

“No, I _am not_. I'm bruthing my teeth.”

Should George have brushed his teeth? He grabbed a mint out of the tray of candies on the top of the dresser, and shoved it in his mouth. He turned the tv's music channel on, stopping at a slinky classic rock song, and slowly started to move to the beat. He lifted his t shirt off, tossing it on the floor behind him before his hands moved down to unzip his jeans. He wiggled his hips as he shoved them to his ankles and stepped out of them. Jim had moved to the door and stood watching in his plaid boxers. George danced for him now, following Jim as he walked to sit on the edge of the bed. Resting his hands on Jim's shoulders, he lowered himself to undulate in Jim's lap, rubbing his ass against the other man's rapidly hardening dick. At least for now, Jim didn't need help from a pill, George was enough. 

“Arse like a peach,” Jim murmured. But he knew better than to touch. George turned around,slipping fingers in the waistband of his black boxer briefs, teasing like he was going to pull them down but not actually doing it. He sat, and leaned back, gripping Jim's thighs with his own and stretching his arms behind his head, he bent backwards until the back of his head touched the floor. 

“Get back up here.”

“Make me,” George said. He did a backward roll, landing on his feet. His nervousness returned as he pushed his shorts down and finally stood completely bare for Jim. He sauntered over, letting Jim pull him closer with hands on his waist. Jim drew a finger over his cock, which was as exited as the rest of him. 

“Look at you,” he whispered. And George gently pushed him back until he was laid out and crawled up to straddle his waist. Their kisses grew increasingly aggressive, as Jim's fingers dug into his hips. The tip of his hardness kept brushing between George's cheeks and George moaned every time he felt it.

“I don't want to finish too soon,” Jim groaned. “Don't know how many I have in me tonight.” He rolled them over, reversing their positions, and pinned George's arms above his head by the wrists. “Keep them there, please.” 

He moved away to retrieve the condoms, and lube, and a clean hand towel. George stayed still and silent, and was rewarded by Jim saying “there's my good boy” when he returned. He kissed down the column of George's throat, over his chest and shoulders, brushing his nipples with the pads of his fingers. Jim sought out every sensitive spot, making good on his promise to discover how George's body worked. By the time he slipped lube coated fingers between George's legs, George was squirming and desperate. Jim took a long time carefully preparing him, which turned out to be a good idea, the discomfort only lasted a second before George could easily yield to him.

When George opened his eyes the next morning, he took a beat to try and remember where he was. He was pressed against a man's chest and a man's hairy arm was wrapped around his waist. They were both naked. George peeked out from under the crisp white sheets and stared around at the sunlit hotel suite. Jim was there, softly snoring peacefully. George couldn't wake him, he'd worked so hard last night, fucking George until he almost cried and still felt it in every wincing movement as he got up and stretched. George heard water splashing faintly, he wandered to the window, not bothering yet with a robe. And this, this was what Jim had meant when he said staying in this hotel would be worth going out of their way for. As George reached the window, the sound of the water grew clearer, low, icy, white capped waves were crashing against the dock below. A harbor cruise boat moored to the dock dipped and rocked in the wind and every time it did, a faint little bell rang. He could see the endless stretch of the blue gray Atlantic, fog shrouded islands and bridges in the distance, and a sunrise pouring gold sparkles over everything. 

Room Service knocked with breakfast. George threw on a robe, tipped the guy and wheeled the cart over to the dining table. He busied himself setting everything out before Jim woke up. It was a full breakfast, including pastries, orange juice, fruit, tea, eggs and bacon, which he was thankful for. It smelled absolutely heavenly. His appetite had returned with a vengeance now that he knew letting Jim pay for things wouldn't end in his paying Jim back with things he didn't want to give. They'd also included a bouquet of red and white roses in a silver vase, and a little card. 

_even if I don't ever see you again, you are so beautiful and I want to thank you for spending time with me_ He stuck his fist in his mouth and whimpered happily before going to kiss Jim awake. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has ended up spilling over into four chapters. So that's gonna be a thing.
> 
> The Ritz Carlton Boston really doesn't appear to serve watercress sandwiches, which is sad because they're missing out on a great marketing opportunity.


	12. Forgiven  (KJ/GV,  massage,  crying, mild food play,  masochism)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _But in the smyle of Kings there lyes such fate,_  
>  That to be lov’d, is to be ruinate.  
> -A Contemplation over the Duke's Grave, W. Hemmings
> 
> The final installment of the historical James I/Buckingham series which includes chapter 5 "Betwixt God'n Me" and chapter 10 "The Rule".

__

_“Do you understand how angry I am with you?” James demanded. His Scots accent became thicker as he raged. “My subjects use my heart for their own games, and think me a fool who can be pushed in whatever direction they wish!”_

_George stood before him miserably as everything he'd worked for crumbled. James knew the truth, George did not know how he'd learned it, but he knew about the plot to pull his attention from Somerset and the role George had played in it. He knew George had been chosen for him, and coached on how to choreograph their romance. James's first marriage had been arranged, but of course his advisors hadn't gone behind his back and lied about it. They hadn't asked the future queen to pretend she'd arrived in his life by miraculous chance and was madly in love._

_“Tell me,” James had said, “Tell me you were of age and consenting. Tell me I am not a-I did not-”_

_George could have saved himself in that moment by turning things around and misrepresenting the situation to make James feel guilty. He would have done that to another man, other men might have deserved to spend the rest of their lives believing they had done such a terrible thing. And he would get what he was owed from that man, money to keep his mouth shut and an apology for the harm caused. But he couldn't hurt the king like that, James was truly innocent of both crimes._

_“I am a gift from your friends, but a willing one. I was old enough to consent to all of it. I'm not innocent, I have never been innocent.” He stared fixedly at the floor. It must be true, he could no longer remember a time when he wasn't this person, who would lie to a man who'd only been kind to him._

_“Then get out of my sight or I shall have you dragged out,” James said icily._

_“Sire-”_

_“Where you go, what you do, is no longer my concern. I've had my fill of you and no longer love or want you.”_

__

When George had confessed his fear of what he'd be called when word got out he was in the king's bed, James had told him not to worry. He was Beloved of a king, and therefore could not be anything else. 

But now he was no longer loved by a king. So what did that make him? The world had forgiven him for his sin when he was the lover of God's anointed, but to fall from such a height...that was inexcusable. Would he cease to become a target? Or was he now simply easier prey? George was frightened, waiting for the moment when he was told to pack his things and leave court in shame, or when men came to take advantage of his weakness. They might catch him in a hallway after dinner, or walking home from a pub in the dark, or find him alone in his room. Perhaps James would send them, to get rid of the problem, since there was no crime he could accuse George of publicly that didn't also implicate himself. _'You can't con an honest man',_ his brother always said. If James hadn't been overcome by lust for a man, he wouldn't have been so easily misled. But that was also a bit unfair. It was difficult for any man with the slightest attraction to his own sex, to resist the temptation George offered. He was a finely honed weapon, a concentrated sneak attack on anyone with a libido. That was a fact, not a boast. And James had treated him like a real person with a heart and mind anyway. Because James wanted a friend as much as he'd ever wanted a young, handsome and energetic bed partner. He wasn't angry that George had been unfaithful with his body (he hadn't) he believed George had been unfaithful in his _heart_ by lying about his original motivations. 

George placed his toy on the pillow next to his head. It was the first symbol of how far James was willing to go out of love for him, ridiculous and embarrassing as that was, no one could take it from him. He kissed it and nuzzled it, trying to water it with his tears in the hope that it would turn into the real James instead of a piece of cold, unfeeling wood. 

In the next few days, George found his resolve again, and went in search of the second most powerful man he knew. 

“Mum said to get back in there and fix my mistake,” George said glumly. She had not spent all that time and money grooming him to be bedded by a king, only to have him quit on her so easily. The plan had been hers, the failure was all his.

Sir Francis Bacon took a bite of his chicken pie and sat back thoughtfully.

“The king will forgive you, I believe that. I've only seen him this besotted once before. The most important move you can make, is to not make this worse. I can help. I'll start by spreading rumors that you've been nothing but a chaste and loyal partner to your king.”

Lord Bacon was like minded, George had never had to hide the truth about his preferences or his relationships from his mentor, except just quite exactly how far he and James had recently gone, because no one could know that. He would be alone with that secret for the rest of his life. 

“I have truly tried to be,” George said. He poked morosely at his own piece of pie. “And he's been nothing but good and gentle to me, and patient. I've tried to draw out his inner sadistic animal, but it isn't easy.”

“Perhaps he doesn't have one,” Bacon replied. 

“All men have one.” George had his own little monster, made out of helpless anger and frustration, and wanting to be important, he needed someone else's monster to keep his in control. 

“So cynical for one so young.”

“I have my reasons,” George said.

He did not enjoy the thoughtful, pitying look Bacon gave him.

“I don't want you walking home alone in the dark. Stay here at York House tonight, and tomorrow we'll go back to Whitehall together.”

Bacon had not, and would not, touch him. They truly did not feel that way about each other. But this would make it clear to all that he still had friends in high places. There was a power vacuum, boys who would kill to take his place, the king could easily have him replaced tomorrow. As George followed a servant up to his guest room, he looked around at the furnishings and thought this was the sort of house he might like to own one day.

Today, James's schedule included a meeting with Bacon to receive updates on the court cases he was interested in following.

“The boy came to see me in some distress last night,” Bacon said, ever so casually, while he set the reports in order of priority on the king's desk.

“I don't see how that's of any interest to me,” James replied. He opened the first report and attempted to concentrate on it. Something something _French pirate claims pet tiger unfairly impounded._

“He has confessed his part in all of it to me. He does have a heart, and it's broken now that you've tossed him aside. No offense, Your Majesty, but I speak the truth. And he fears for his life. I've made it known he's under my protection but-”

“I don't seek revenge,” James said. “I don't want him in any way molested. Let that be known. But I cannot see his face.”

“It will be hard, remembering all that firm young flesh, those legs, that soft hair, his eyes and smile. All the satisfaction I am sure he gave you in bed. His amusing, intelligent conversation, so rare a combination to find in such a pretty boy.”

“What are you?”James asked. “One of his pimps?” Bacon was trying to make him nostalgic for the lying whore's better qualities, James refused to fall for it.

“I am not. His mother is. She put his name in the running when the anti Somerset faction came up with their plan.”

“Good Lord,” James said. He fought against having any sympathy. Parents occasionally tried to throw their daughters at him, surely some had realized he'd only ever had one mistress and decided to throw their sons at him instead. Once in awhile, it almost worked, this family was just a bit more devious and determined than most. And they happened to be blessed with a son who was something out of James's deepest, darkest fantasies. He would not think about how George's moral development had clearly not been a priority with his mother. How he had never stood a chance. “Well, he's an adult who made a choice.”

“I suppose he must accept the consequences, Sire. But, I need to tell you, he has done nothing to betray you beyond the initial lie. If he had, I would know, you know I have my finger on all the gossip. He truly cares for you, and he remains nothing but loyal and no longer takes counsel from the anti Somerset crowd.”

“That may be so. I cannot yet forgive him, though I pray for his soul. But you can have him now that I'm finished. I do not want him going to someone who will be unkind."

James remembered, with an ache, the first time he saw George. _He was on his summer progress, staying at Apethorpe. The weather was sticky hot, and he'd gone riding in the park with his secretary. They followed the sound of young male laughter, and espied a group of youths bathing in a pond. They were engaged in horseplay, shoving and splashing each other. It was a paradise of creamy skin, strong, shapely legs, broadening shoulders, the curve of perky buttocks and pretty cocks dangling innocently, all with the backdrop of cool blue water and summer sun._

_They had body hair, three were trying to grow beards, one had succeeded. So, not children, young men somewhere between seventeen and their early twenties. James drew his horse back behind the trees, not wanting to embarrass them or disturb their fun._

_“ Why don't you choose one, Sire? And I will find out if he's willing.”_

_He couldn't stop looking at one young man, more perfectly formed than all the rest, slender and graceful, with a mop of chestnut brown curls and pouting pink lips. Even from this distance, James could see he had a lovely complexion. His friend pushed him, and he overbalanced on coltish legs and landed in the water. The lad was laughing as he glanced up and met James's eyes, utterly shameless when he rose, naked and dripping. James lost all ability to think straight, his heart pounded, he felt suddenly shy, not sure how he managed to form a reply to his secretary._

_“That one." He pointed. "The one with the brown curls. Find a way I can speak with him.”_

James had compromised his values out of love for this boy. They had known each other in the most sinful way possible, and they had agreed to be husbands. _And then_ , James had learned that George was nothing more than a harlot, engaged by his so called friends and subjects, to control him through a false romance. He was king, he rarely heard the word “no”, but he would never, had never, willingly and knowingly pressed his attention on someone who clearly did not want that. And George was so convincingly eager, accommodating, even showing James his vulnerabilities, James had believed it was a mutual coming together of well matched lovers. Was none of that real? George Villiers should have gone to work for Shakespeare instead of coming to court. He could be the theatrical star of his generation. 

This revelation held a mirror up to all of James's flaws and insecurities, of course someone that young and beautiful didn't really want him. Of course he hadn't made a real friend. And if George happened to flush, or tremble in his arms, he was thinking about the man he really wanted. Romantic love wasn't for kings, there were only political marriages and subjects seeking power of their own. It was just...they needn't have _lied_ about it. Why play cruel tricks on their king? 

_He's a boy_ , his traitorous conscience murmured, _taught to trade his favors for his family's security, and now caught up in something too convoluted for him to understand or escape from. Admit it, Jamie, they're going to kill him if he's no longer useful_. 

Even worse, he couldn't stop wishing he could rewrite this story, with a George who truly did love him. He wondered if Bacon's assertion of George's loyalty and obedience was true. If the plan was to seduce James into committing a crime, if no one had come to him with blackmail yet, perhaps George had kept his secret. If he could have one prayer answered at the moment...it would be to have his George back in his arms.

George glanced at Bacon warily, eyebrows raised, after hearing about the king's suggestion.

“I wouldn't even if I wanted to, as I know that you don't want it, though you would try to make the best of it,” Bacon said as he walked George to his room after dinner. “We both belong to him, whether he still wants you or not, but you're not a puppy to be given away for eating the neighbor's pet rabbit. You need not worry, my protection doesn't come with strings attached. Anyway, our goal is to get you back in the king's bed. Once he changes his mind about you, he may conveniently forget anything else he said. Always be cautious when an offer from your king seems too good to be true. Royals are mercurial creatures, we must follow their rules, but they can change the rules whenever they like.” 

“You're saying, hold onto the jewelry,” George replied. 

“Are you going out later? I need to go home to my wife, but one of my men can escort you.”

“It's raining too hard, I thought I'd stay in my room and read.”

The storm continued into the night. The palace guards came banging on his door in the middle of it, as George was fitfully trying to sleep. George threw on a robe and slippers and stumbled to answer the door. 

“The king wants you.”

“What? Why?” he asked blearily. His heart thumped wildly. Was tonight the night he would be killed for his treachery? Would James give him time to make peace with God before having his body thrown into the Thames? 

“He's upset and he wants you. So get moving.” While he was so out of favor, they saw no reason to show him the respect he deserved. George stumbled after them down the many long torch lit corridors. They left him alone with the king, who was pacing (or rather, limping) back and forth anxiously in his nightshirt, while thunder rolled overhead. 

“Darling! You come to me just when I need you.” The king swayed dangerously toward him. George at first thought he was drunk, but realized he was off balance because he was clearly sick, and in pain. 

“I am always at your service, Majesty,” George said, performing an awkward bow. “Your Majesty is cold, here, put on a robe.” He grabbed the discarded garment off a chair and helped James into the robe with practiced movements, their routine perfectly synced at this point. 

“Steenie, I am afeared,” James groaned. “I have dark thoughts and I hear noises, is tonight the night they will come for me?”

“It's only the wind and rain, Majesty,” George said. “Or birds in the roof, or a tree scraping against the stone. You are safe here. _I_ will keep you safe.” He was unsure who 'they' were, but 'they' would have to go through him to get to James. He was in his pajamas and would have to make do with a fireplace poker instead of a sword, but he would protect the king. 

“Yes. Bacon has told me you've remained dutiful since our separation. That you never used the information you have against me and you have not taken up with anyone else?”

“My king, I have not. I swear to you.” George fell on his knees like a penitent pilgrim, clutching at the king's clothes. This was a second chance, he may never get a third. He could not stop himself from crying in relief.

“I'm filled with happiness, knowing you are still my good boy. My sweet child and my little wife, you are the one I care for, the one I want.”

“I meant no harm!” George sobbed against his leg, while James petted his back. 

“You were only a bit naughty," James said in a choked voice. "No lasting harm has been done. I kept you in my prayers, I prayed you could redeem yourself. For, I can't- I can't imagine going on without being able to hold you in my arms.” He cupped George's face in his hands, wiping the tears away with his fingers. As his vision cleared, George noticed hazily that James had been weeping too. 

“You should beat me purple for the way I've hurt you,” George pleaded. 

“Hush now. I could not even if I wanted to.”

“You're in pain tonight. Sire, you must let me help you, you must let me take care of you.” And James didn't protest as George helped him back into bed like a child, and began to gently rub his legs to ease the pain from the cramps and tremors his palsy brought on. He felt the muscles loosening under his fingers and was rewarded with a pleased sigh. 

“You are so good to me, My George. So good to the ugly, old, lecherous, cripple you are chained to.”

“Sire, you are none of those things.” Who had told the king he was ugly? While he was a talented but inexperienced artist's attempt to make a copy of his beautiful grandfather or his conventionally handsome uncle, he was average at worst, certainly no hideous beast.George had endured the touch of _far_ uglier men with definitely uglier personalities. George thought James quite handsome for a man his age, to be honest, and had never realized James might think he didn't. But what else could he expect? James knew George had been recruited, of course he'd assume everything George had told him was a lie. Perhaps it had dredged up things he'd been told as a child. “How is that, do you feel better?” 

“Your hands work miracles. I'm sorry that I won't be able to...turn in a performance tonight as vigorous as the one when we first...” Here he sighed, and patted George's bare thigh where his nightshirt had ridden up. 

“Tonight is not a night for that anyway. There are other things we can do, your rest is the priority. First, you need something to eat, I'll be right back.” George caught the attention of the guard stationed outside the king's chambers. He felt just a bit smug that he was back to giving orders instead of being pushed around. 

“His Majesty is ill. Find someone to go down to the kitchen and fetch fresh water, some fruit- an orange if they have it, and some chocolate if there is any.” A tall order for the middle of the night, but the kitchen quickly delivered, and George set the tray next to the bed. He poured James a cup of clear cold water, and took the little knife they'd provided and began to peel the orange, carefully avoiding the seeds. 

“What is this all about?” James asked curiously.

“I've read that pain is often the result of a deficiency in vitamins. Sailors eat citrus fruit to avoid rickets, scurvy and muscle cramping. And chocolate is a pain reliever, did you know that?” George placed an orange slice between the king's lips. “At a party I went to in France, they dipped fruit in melted chocolate. Quite messy but also quite the mood lifter.” 

He bit into a slice, aware James's eyes tracked the juice staining his lips and running down his hand. James pulled George's palm to his mouth, and slowly licked the skin. George shivered.

“ _Oh, Sire_ ,” George moaned.

“Come here, ” James murmured.

George shuffled forward to straddle his lap, letting James lick more excess juice off his clavicle. 

“What if,” George said, sucking slowly on the orange, “we get a reverse whipping boy?”

“A reverse- Oh, I see where you're going with this, clever lad," James chuckled thoughtfully. "A surrogate to hurt you for me, when I'm sick or you wish for more than I can bear to give you." 

“I know you'd love to watch even if you can't always participate as much as I wish. There is fun to be had in watching as well. And there's that strong, handsome young man who works in the stables , who wants to save up to marry his girl. He won't tell anyone.” George shifted his hips and James moaned. Something hard was definitely poking at his bottom. His own cock stirred in response. “Or we can simply go at your pace. I'll lay on my belly and read erotic poetry out loud while you just...take your time with a cane.” 

“Both suggestions are lovely. I remain amazed that you're so eager to play these games. You're healthy and strong and sometimes I can barely walk. Why do you-”

“You are my lord and master,” George reminded him. Enough of James's low spirits and self deprecation. Enough of this gloomy mood. He lifted his own nightshirt off, basking in James's hungry stare and wandering hands. “ When you were young, they would beat you and lock you up when you defied them, because they tried to make you believe a king should serve his subjects. But I serve you, my king and my husband, because you deserve it, not the other way around. Because you are anointed by God and because you have been nothing but good to me. To obey you is my greatest joy.” 

George leaned forward, kissed James's ear, and offered his body to his king yet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [You can find the rest of the poem here](http://www.earlystuartlibels.net/htdocs/buckingham_assassination_section/Piii7.html).
> 
> I was figuring they've only been together maybe a year. George is moving up the food chain but still relatively socially powerless (and not yet with a beard)


	13. Sugar pt 4 (KJ/GV,  daddy kink,  polyamory,  creampie, olfactophilia (scent), mentions of bondage,  kink negotiation  )

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim and George continue their weekend date.

Jim waited for George in the lobby, and while he was waiting, he phoned his wife for a debrief. 

“How is Skinny Jeans-Man Bun?” Anne asked. “Does he wear a beanie? I bet he does.”

“George and his amazing, responsive, flexible, lovely body are in the shower.” Jim sighed happily into the phone. In the shower, getting all soapy, singing something from _Spring Awakening_. 

“Sit down before you hyperventilate, James. So it sounds like it's going well, at least on your end. He didn't run away after watching you try to eat. ”

“I _am_ sitting. How do you know I wasn't sitting already? I wanted to give him some privacy to...deal with everything in his own way. Things got a bit intense, and he's - he's an odd duck.”

“Explain? Also about the duck?”

“Honey, there's no actual duck involved,” Jim said. “What I mean is, he's confident in bed. No hesitation, no shyness, minimal fumbling. Once we got through the bedroom door we were fine. More than fine, we're fantastic together. But it's as if he doesn't understand the concept of going on a date. I know gay dating has its complicated side-”

“Nooo,” Anne said in faux disbelief. 

“But he's clearly not used to the wining and dining part,” Jim finished. 

“Maybe it's a college thing. Guys his age aren't exactly sophisticated in their taste or foreplay technique. And gay boys are preyed on by older men, just like girls are. An older man buys you something, he wants something in return, you have to figure out what it is and if you're willing to give it. A first date with an older man is never just a date.” And she coughed pointedly, reminding him that she had been twenty, and a student in the class he was TA for, when they'd had their own first date. She was pregnant with Henry, their first of three children, by graduation. “Do you want me to have our detectives do the background check?”

“Maybe. And yes, please have them get right on that. He also got anxious when he tried to articulate his kinks - far less experienced in that area but he's a very kinky guy, apparently.”

“The kind you don't take home to Mother.”

“Well, someone else's mother. Mine has no room to judge. Anyway, I said I'd help him figure it out. ”

“How generous of you to donate your time to such a worthy cause.”

“Truly, I'm a prince among men. I should let you go, he just walked in.” Jim waved discreetly and smiled as George approached. He kissed George's cheek, not caring who saw. As he'd said last night, two consenting adults, after all. 

“I had a lot of hair to dry.” A few damp curls escaped from under his navy blue beanie. His hair looked slightly darker in morning sunlight as opposed to artificial light. He must be one of those people whose hair color shifted based on the light source, and Jim imagined that it would darken during the long, gloomy New England winter. Jim wrapped a section of curl around his finger and gently tugged. George blushed sweetly. 

“Did you like the breakfast?” Jim asked. “I trust they didn’t short-change you on the food?”

“It was more than enough,” George assured him. “Especially after all the calories we burned last night.”

“And you didn't eat much of your dinner. I just feel bad that you were so anxious.” They stepped out onto the sidewalk. 

“Aaah!” George yelped as the frigid air hit their faces. He tried to cover his face with his gloved hands. “I don't wanna walk after all!”

“Yeah, we're going back inside and calling the car,” Jim said. As they were passing the front desk, Jim overheard a maid and the man on duty at the desk talking in whispers. 

“314 brought a hooker last night.”

“I thought we weren't that kind of hotel.”

“It depends on the hookers. And the guests. Rich guys and celebs can do what they want as long as they're not disturbing anyone else. With a guy like Mr. Stuart, we're supposed to look the other way. But that guy he brought in, he looks kinda under age.”

“Ryan over in the Grille said they carded him and he's 21. But yeah, like, no doubt he's a rent boy. Ryan said they were watching him like a hawk last night, 'cause he was acting like he'd never been in a decent restaurant before. Hey, if I was that smoking hot, I'd charge too. I have student loans to pay off.”

George's jaw tightened. Jim squeezed his hand. 

“Hey, it doesn't matter what they think of you,” Jim said, although, internally, he was furious that they dared to insult a boy who was no less respectable than they were. “It's a big city, you don't have to see these people again after tomorrow. And, I was planning to take you someplace else for dinner.”

“I'm just sick of hearing it,” George said. “The attitude.”

“People have treated you this way before?” Jim asked. His phone chirped with a text alerting him to the arrival of the car. 

“Yeah. It's like, no matter how hard I try, they can smell the trash on me.”

“Okay, rule number one – no insulting yourself from now on. I'm not sure there's a good men's clothing store in this neighborhood, anyway,” Jim added as the car arrived and they slid into the leather interior with its toasty warmth. 

“You want to dress me up like your own personal doll.”

Jim could tell from the clothing George chose that he liked to dress fashionably, and Jim enjoyed providing the things his boys liked. He liked a well-dressed young man on his arm. 

“Yes, I do,” Jim admitted. “Do you mind? Are you going to fight me on this?”

“No. As long as I get some veto power. Are we going someplace nice?”

“I'm sure you know more about clothes than I do,” Jim said. “The place we're having dinner tonight requires a collared shirt and a jacket. I'm already wearing mine. Nobody has to know for how long I've been wearing it. Until I spill sauce on it, which I promise you, I will.” 

“A little club soda or running it under the tap will fix that. But I always carry a Shout pad just in case. Yes, I am that fussy, thank you for asking.”

“I'm not surprised, entirely,” Jim said. He had never done his own laundry, and wasn't sure what a Shout pad was. But he didn't want George to think he was a clueless snob, so he nodded as if he knew what that meant. 

They spent the day wandering from clothing store to clothing store, trying outfits on George. Jim got carried away and couldn't resist buying more than just a button down shirt and a blazer. George needed appropriate matching trousers, and then, of course, why not get some shoes as well? The best, naturally. He also bought George a black wool peacoat from Sterling of Boston and a new pair of leather gloves. The final touch was a peacock-blue scarf made of the softest high-quality cotton, which he'd seen George admiring on a rack. 

"Hold out your arms, wrists together." He smiled when George automatically complied. Jim wrapped the scarf around the younger man's wrists, and watched those gorgeous eyes widen and his cheeks pinken. 

"Oh," George whispered gleefully. 

"Just like last night, but I'd tie your hands. Is that something you want?"

"Uh huh. We should go-b-back to the hotel." And so they did, and spent the rest of the afternoon playing with the scarf in bed, sans penetration. George responded wonderfully to being pinched and scratched, but Jim was also careful not to introduce any real pain play so soon. He was a romantic at heart, and couldn't handle the thought of scaring George away by moving too fast. At seven p.m, they cleaned up, dressed and called for the car again. If possible, it was even colder out when they scrambled in.

"You still haven't told me where we're going," George said. 

"No, I haven't," Jim replied mischievously. 

The car pulled up outside the elaborate facade of the Omni Parker House hotel, King's Chapel dark and silent next door. George clutched Jim's hand as they passed through the doors of Parker's Restaurant. The burnished wood paneled dining room, with its paintings of the Swan Boats, was only just filling up, and the other diners glance up briefly and curiously. Jim felt a tiny stir of pride at the appreciative gazes they directed toward his date. George, like most beautiful people, didn't seem to notice and was busy staring at the intricate carvings above the windows. 

“This place is like entering another century,” George whispered. “I feel like I'm in a Merchant/Ivory movie.”

“It's not exactly up to date with the Boston food scene,” Jim said. “They do what they do and they do it well, but it's a bit WASP Establishment in a way the WASP Establishment doesn't even do anymore. I just thought you should have the experience at least once.”

Maybe he was being pushy, but he wanted to show George all the parts of their city he might not have had the money or time to see yet. He couldn't give George the world, but he could at least give him a bit of Boston.

They ordered glasses of water, and Jim ordered Clam Chowder and some Parker House Rolls for the appetizer and the Butter Poached Lobster for their entrees, after George had glanced at the menu, then shot him a desperate look. The waiter recommended a nice, non-intimidating white wine, and then they were left alone. 

“Ooh, cool, the butter's shaped like little roses,” George said. 

“This is the oldest continuously operating hotel in the United States,” Jim commented. He was doing what he always did when he was nervous: he was clinging to what he knew, interesting facts about things. “It was built in 1855 and it's basically the history of American food in one place. Did you know Ho Chi Minh used to work in the kitchen? We can look at the plaque about it on the way out.”

George placed his hand on top of Jim's on the table. 

“Jim, take a breath. I'm pretty sure we're fucking again tonight. You don't have to get all nervous. And I'll probably blow you in the car again. It's turning into, like, a Pavlovian response.”

“You're that easily trainable?” Jim teased. Not that he was complaining, George's oral skills were world class, and he looked amazing on his knees, although Jim was also glad he'd had chances to reciprocate. George had a gorgeous cock. 

George cocked his head like a puppy. “Might be. For the right guy. Do you want to train me?”

“I'm interested in what you need and would like to try.” Jim spoke quietly. “I'm not a seventeenth century king and you're not my property-” Jim was not mistaken, George's breath had hitched, a barely suppressed ragged gasp at the words 'my property'. Oh, Georgie, so that's how it was. 

“I don't know where to start.”

“We can do submission and pain, or submission without pain, or pain without submission, real domestic discipline or just 'funishment'. There are lots of options to choose from and different levels of power exchange within that. You get to decide how much power you give me. I already know I usually like being in charge, but I'm not very sadistic. I can do a bit, there are just some no-go areas, some hard limits based on my own past. Do you know about hard limits?”

“Yeah. I did a little research on my own. And um, I've been reading kink porn for like, years? Some het stuff when I was in the mood for girls, but I've spent more time than's probably healthy on malespank.net. I loved all the nasty porn but mostly I was desperate for stories about men with alternative ways of loving each other. You know, the brat tamed by a loving older man with a firm hand.” He didn't blush or look away as he said that. 

"I don't think you need much taming." Jim smiled over his wineglass. 

"But, I mean, how do you even know?" George asked. "Maybe I'm really bad." He flirtatiously rubbed his foot against Jim's foot under the table. "And how can I let a man do dirty naughty things to me when I don't even know what his favorite book is?"

"When my mum went to prison," Jim said,"I got lost in the social services system. I spent ages one to six in a foster home run by Christian fundamentalists. They weren't kind. When I was six, my uncle finally won the custody battle and he came to get me. We'd had a chance to talk during the trial, and he knew I loved reading. My new room had a bookshelf filled with first and special editions of all the classic children's books, the modern ones as well as the older stories. My uncle is- not a reader- but he knows how to take advice, so he'd get recommendations from people with excellent taste for my Christmas and birthday gifts. So I guess to make a long story short, my list of favorite books starts with the ones my uncle bought me. When I got older, I fell in love with books by Ellis Peters, and stories by Chesterton..”

“Like _Father Brown_.”

“He constructed these fantastic puzzles, but they always had a deeper meaning attached. He was a Catholic and a socialist but also one of the finest theological minds in literature, so I can't hold it against him. _The Man Who Was Thursday_ is a masterpiece of profound absurdity.” 

“I'm Catholic,” George said in a voice which bordered on hurt. Oh. Oops.

“I didn't mean to offend,” Jim said quickly. “In my job, we sort of say those things without thinking, since we've all developed a pretty thick skin. What's your favorite?” 

“When we could go to the library, I'd always check out like, _The Boxcar Children_ but slip a _Gossip Girl_ in there. In high school and the first part of college, I loved everything Christopher Rice. Especially _Light Before Day_. Harry Potter, oh.My.God. My favorite book of all time is _Alice in Wonderland_ , though. But a few years ago, I read this book, _Dream Boy_ \- have you read that one?”

“No, tell me about it,” Jim said. The waiter came by to clear their plates and offer the dessert menu. Jim was quite proud of having got through the meal without spilling food on himself. 

“It's a Southern Gothic coming of age gay romance. Nathan is a socially awkward nerd living in an abusive situation, and Roy is a handsome, well loved jock. It's all totally idyllic until it turns horrifying when Toxic Masculinity and Gay Panic come a-callin'. The ending is sorta an ambiguous mindfuck with some weird religious symbolism. It got made into a movie in 2008 and the whole thing's on Youtube. It's not my favorite book, it has flaws, but it definitely stuck with me.”

“It sounds intriguing. I'll definitely check out both the book and the movie. Room for dessert?” Jim wasn't big on teen angst, or American lit, but if he tracked the book down and read it, it was another excuse to call George and talk about it. 

“Well, _yeah_ ,” George replied. Jim gestured for the waiter to lean in, and pointed silently at a certain menu item. They exchanged conspiratorial smiles. 

“By the slice, please,” Jim said. “If that's possible. Wait, you're not allergic to nuts or chocolate, are you?”

“Nope,” George said. His mouth fell open as the waiter returned with their slices of Parker's iconic cake. 

“I couldn't not,” Jim explained. “I figured you hadn't ever had the real, real thing.”

“Isn't it like, kind of soon to give me a creampie?” George asked , snickering. “I haven't even signed your sex contract yet.” 

If you were George Villiers, it was difficult-bordering-on-impossible to eat a Boston Cream Pie in a non-suggestive way. It was all part of Jim's cunning plan to watch him lick the filling off his fork. 

“ _It's not a sex contract._ I don't care who knows about that. It's just about protecting my wife and kids.”

“I didn't know you were a father too. Guess at 48, it'd be weirder if you weren't.”

“Two teenagers, a girl and a boy.” He didn't elaborate, for once, miffed at George's bluntness. It was another painful subject. “If you don't sign, it doesn't mean we have to stop seeing each other. Nothing changes, except you won't be able to come into any of my homes or meet my family. But we don't have to talk about it now. There's no rush, I probably sprung that on you too soon. Is a first date way too soon for the NDA discussion?”

“I don't know. I've only ever signed them for the movies I was in.”

“You were in movies?” Jim asked. George was certainly full of surprises. 

“Small parts. Mostly cause my mom's an actress. Was. She never hit it big, you won't remember her from anything, and she quit after she got remarried to a guy with a good job. But like, someone got assaulted on the set, and we had to sign papers saying we wouldn't talk about it or sue.”

“And you chose not to pursue a serious acting career?”

“I… Dancing is my first love,” George said. “And I already told you about my dad. It's just, a toxic world and I wanted to get away from it for a while. Go somewhere nobody knows me and be my own person. Away from the past.”

“Ah, I know how that feels,” Jim murmured. “I don't go back to the UK if I can help it. I was known as “The Billionaire Baby” when I was wee. My case made national headlines, it was highly embarrassing to the Scottish government that they lost track of the sole legitimate heir to Tudor International, in the system. Especially because my grandparents were friends with the queen. So me and Uncle James decided to move to Maine, because one of our subsidiary companies is headquartered there.” He waved his wine glass around vaguely, watching the liquid slosh around inside. 

“Did you like growing up in Maine? It sounds nice, but I also mostly associate it with Stephen King.”

“We lived just outside Portland, which is a city but a relatively low crime one. I really can’t complain: I got to grow up in a place with good air quality, beaches, history and art, nature to explore and people who believe in freedom of thought and staying out of other people's business. It still wasn't easy coming out as a queer teenager at that time, but Maine's much more LGBT friendly now. So I do go back, because my memories of the place aren't bad, and I put my uncle up in a great assisted-living condo near our beach house in Kennebunkport.”

“Beach house,” George echoed faintly, pouring half of his fifth glass of wine down his throat. 

“I'd love to take you there alone some day, and do unspeakable things to you where no one can hear you scream,” Jim said. He put his fork down, with an embarrassed frown. “Well, that came out a lot creepier than I meant.”

“No,” George breathed, “it's hot. I might let you do it. That's not me giving you permission to do it now, but maybe some other time when we've talked it over more.”

“Planning ahead's good,” Jim said. “Because I'm not letting you miss class for a sex game. Anything else, you can miss, but not class. Might I top up your wine?”

“Top off my wine, 's good wine,” George snickered. “After that, we gotta go back to the room so we can get it on.”

On the way to the car, Jim stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk. George caught his elbow.

“That's why we use our walking feet,” he scolded. 

“Do you work with kids?” Jim snorted. 

“I-yes- I'm a dance teacher, three to fives and seven to nines. I know, you wouldn't think! But it's a better gig than most of my friends have. ”

“HAH!” Jim said, falling backward into the car. He'd just had an image of George dressed like a swan, with a dozen children following him like baby birds. George sank to his knees on the floor. 

“This might not be as good,” he said, “because I am drunk.”

“You know what they say, blowjobs are like - like pizza,” Jim replied. “Always appreciated, hard to screw up.”

An African American woman had replaced the young man who'd been attending the front desk earlier. She looked up and smiled politely as they passed on their way to the elevator. 

“Is the floor moving or am I?” George asked when the elevator began to rise. 

“It's a lift. That's a British elevator,” Jim said. “Only this is an ‘Merican one. Because of the bloody Revolution.”

“Weren't a lot of Scots not interested in fighting England's war?” George asked. “ And like, they'd desert when they got to the colonies, and escape into the mountains and that's how we got, like, hillbillies?”

“Yes,” Jim admitted. “Don't correct me in front of other people.”

“Um, we're alone.”

That's right, they were alone. He could've been kissing George this entire time and like an idiot, he hadn't done that. He was just smiling wickedly and backing George up to the wall when the car stopped, the doors slid open and an elderly man and woman got on. They were clutching balloons, flowers and a box of leftovers. 

“It's our ambiversary!” The old man slurred. 

“Congratulations,” George said sincerely. “How long have you been married?”

“Fifty years!”

“And what about you two?” His wife asked. “You seem like newlyweds.”

“First date,” George said. And he looked up at Jim with a gaze bordering on worshipful, it made Jim swallow hard in the face of all that trust. “But I feel like I've known him for like, four hundred years already.” 

“Awww, Larry, they're so cute,” she sighed. “And you take good care of each other, okay? Don't listen to what anyone says about your age difference, my mother was fourteen when she-”

“Sylvia, they probably don't care.”

“I promise I'll take care of him,” Jim said, gently tugging George out of the elevator at their floor. 

“Have great drunk old-people sex!” George called to the closing elevator door. As he was trying to slide the keycard through the sensor, Jim pressed up behind him, groping the crotch of George's trousers and his hard bulge. 

“Oh, Georgie, have you been like this the whole time?”

“Since I blew you in the car,” George groaned. “I get so horny doing that.”

“It's the curse, and the blessing, of youth. I only wish it was still so easy for me, getting so hard so quickly. But whenever I do, lately, it's all because of you.” 

Inside, George took their coats and hung them up, as Jim had done the night before. He continued undressing Jim, stripping him down to his boxers, and leading him to the bed. Jim lay back, and watched George tipsily undress, apparently he'd forgot to put his underwear back on post-afternoon romp in the sheets. If only Jim had known that while they were sitting in a stuffy 'shirt and jacket' restaurant. They would have ended up pawing each other in the bathroom, and Parker's was probably the sort of place which banned people for doing that. George tossed a condom and the bottle of lube to him.

“I can't catch things,” Jim said as they landed on the pillow by his head. Seeing George naked sped things up for Jim, but if he hoped to satisfy George, Jim needed to get them both on the same page sooner rather than later. He'd have to distract the boy while he caught up. 

“I want you to touch yourself. No, don't look at me, watch yourself in the mirror. And you can come whenever.” George probably had at least one more in him today, while it was unlikely that Jim did. Jim stroked himself to hardness watching George pleasure himself. George certainly seemed to thrill to seeing himself in this state, and why wouldn't he. “Look at you, such a pretty boy.”

“Aaah!” Geoge cried, coming all over his hands just as Jim said “Keep watching yourself!”

He took the condoms, lube and George into the bathroom to get him cleaned up, George, caught in a fog of lust, let Jim wipe his skin down. He let Jim press him up against the counter, cock and balls hanging over the sink, and prepare him with careful fingers (but not as careful as they could be). He spread his legs compliantly to give Jim a better angle for pushing inside him. 

“May I fuck you?” Jim whispered, pausing with his hips hovering over George's arse and somehow managing to get the condom on. 

“Yeah, yeah, I want it,” George moaned. It was less difficult this time, George had already taken him a couple of times the day before, and Jim was able to quickly lose himself in George's heat as he rode out his orgasm. He rubbed his palms gently over George's hips and thighs as he thrust, watching George in the mirror, just taking whatever Jim gave him, fully his for the moment. George's left leg trembled as he climaxed for the second time. 

Afterwards, George turned around in his arms and clung to his neck, legs wobbling.

“Time for bed, I think,” Jim murmured. “If even you're tired, sweet boy.”

George woke up first on Sunday, he disentangled himself from Jim, showered, kissed Jim awake and told him he'd be downstairs ordering breakfast. He felt so much more confident, striding in there in the new clothes Jim had bought him, he looked like a successful adult and they didn't balk at showing him to a decent table with a view. The waiter was the same guy from Friday night.

“Hi, I'm Ryan, I'll be your server. Can I start you off with something to drink, sir?”

“Yeah, I'd like two orange juices, no pulp and two black coffees with the milk and sugar on the side. And two Smoked Salmon Eggs Benedict.”

“Right away, sir.”

All smiles and obsequiousness, what a change from Friday night. A nice suit elevated him from _"should we call the cops?"_ to "Sir". Jim arrived a few minutes later, still looking sleep rumpled, which George thought made him look extra cute. 

“You ordered for us? Good boy.” Jim gestured at the table. “Do you mind if I take a couple of sugar cubes from the, uh, igloo you're building?” 

“Go ahead, I'm just doing it to annoy the waiter,” George said. 

“My coffee is cold.”

George had ordered it too soon on purpose, so they'd have to send it back. And when Ryan the Waiter arrived to ask how he could help, George complained that his orange juice had pulp when he'd specifically asked for _no_ pulp (knowing full well there was no pulp in there). After they brought a fresh glass, he conveniently knocked it over. 

“Is this because they mistook you for a prostitute?” Jim asked as soon as they were alone again.

“An under age prostitute. Doesn't make you look great either. And they said I didn't know how to behave in a good restaurant. They haven't seen nothing yet.”

“No, it doesn't. I don't want any of these people running to Page Six with lies about my dalliance with a teenage hooker when you're an adult spending time with me because you choose to.” Jim used his fork to sample a small piece of George's Eggs Benedict. “That's cold. And too spicy. I think you should... _send it back_.” Jim watched with quiet amusement throughout the rest of the meal, as George did everything in his power to drive the waitstaff to tears, pulling up just short of getting anyone fired. 

“Can I ask you something?” Ryan the Waiter asked when he came over to give them the bill, while Jim was in the bathroom. 

“Shoot,” George said. 

“How, uh, much do you make doing it?” Ryan the Waiter asked, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Is it per hour, or per guy or what?”

“Well,” George said, “I wouldn't know, because I'm not actually a rent boy.”

“Oh my god, dude, I'm sorry. We just assumed." 

“You know what they say about what happens when you assume,” George said. He signed the bill, charging it to their room. “My date is rich and married, that doesn't make me a sex worker. But even if I really was a hooker, that was not classy, dude.”

“You're probably not ever coming back, huh?”

“Oh no, we're definitely coming back,” George said. “I'm gonna _make_ all you people deal with me.”

"D'you want us to comp your meal?" Ryan the Waiter asked after an uncomfortable pause. 

"That would be great, thank you," Jim replied as he walked up behind them.

Jim dropped him back at the Lesley dorms by Sunday evening, reluctant to do so but knowing they both had to work on Monday and return to their real lives. 

“I'll call you,” George said and leaned down to give Jim one more quick kiss before he shut the car door and bounded through the frosty grass toward his dorm, his blue scarf trailing behind him.

A week later, Jim was in his on campus office, listening to _A Celtic Sojurn_ and updating his Patheos blog. The Divinity School on a Saturday afternoon was actually quieter than his own home, where Charles was having his piano lesson. He was trying to update the blog, at any rate. He couldn't focus his mind on theology when all he could think about was his mind-blowing weekend with George. He felt blessed for being allowed to spend even one night and two days with him, but that didn't translate well into a spiritual essay. Not one he'd want to share with the public on his PG-rated blog, anyway. 

George, who he'd dropped off at his dorm days ago… and who hadn't called or responded to the one attempt Jim had made to contact him. His desk phone chirped: it was his direct line, since the secretary who normally fielded calls for the professors didn't come in on weekends. What if it was Anne or Charles having an emergency? He'd accidentally on purpose forgotten his cell phone at home because the point of going into the office was peace and quiet. 

“Dr. Stuart speaking.”

“Is this Dr. Stuart?” They sounded like a young man. A student? But he and his students had an understanding that on weekends, all questions and excuses for missing class should be emailed. 

“...Yes. What can I help you with?”

“Um, this is George's roommate Rob?” Was he asking Jim, or telling him? “Your uh, friend George Villiers. I tracked you down from his phone but your _wife_ picked up and said you were here.”

“Is George okay?” Jim ignored the hint of distaste in the guy's voice when he said the word 'wife'. He was assuming Jim was cheating on that nice lady who'd answered his cell phone. 

“George is way sick. His mom is three thousand miles away and you're like, his grownup friend and he needs help.”

George was _sick_? Severely enough that he couldn't make his own phone calls? So he hadn't been avoiding Jim on purpose, he hadn't already lost interest. Oh, that poor kid. 

“Where can I meet up with you? Mind if I swing by your campus?”

“Sure. I'll be waiting by the gate. I have a green hoodie on.”

“Can you tell me what happened?” Jim asked when Rob slid into the seat next to him. Rob managed not to look too weirded out at the chauffeur-driven town car. 

“Okay, like, George thinks you think he smells bad. He was talking about how you wear this amazing cologne-”

“Tom Ford, Vert des Bois. My wife bought it, that's all I know. He thinks he smells bad?” Jim couldn't fathom that, this was someone he'd been _inside_ and they were still worried he was critical of their body? George was in a physically judgmental profession, after all, and maybe he thought his looks were his main value to a lover. George had taken three showers while on their weekend date, Jim had taken...one. Maybe it was about George's assertion that people could 'smell the trash' on him. But what did any of this have to do with George getting sick? 

“He wanted to buy a new scent. And I was like, if he goes alone, he'll pick out something bougie. And I can't let that happen. Plus, I do makeup videos on Youtube so I get mad discounts. Kate Manners has a car, so on Thursday we piled in and went out to Natick, got lunch, saw a movie. George kept saying he felt sick, but he's always claiming he's coming down with something, like, no big deal, right? We were in Sephora, I was trying to convince him to buy Jo Malone Wood Sage and Sea Salt 'cause it smells amazing on him, and he passed out. Right there in Sephora.”

George wanted to please him that badly? Badly enough that he planned to spend money he probably didn't have, to improve a flaw which didn't exist? 

“And um, George hit his head when he fell,” Rob added awkwardly. “My hands were full, I couldn't catch him.”

“You had to choose between your friend and the glass bottle of expensive cologne. So you picked the bottle.” 

“It's sixty-five bucks _an ounce_ and I thought Sephora would've made us pay for it. Security wanted to call an ambulance, but we didn't know if our student health insurance covers that, so we drove back to campus, and we had to keep stopping so George could puke - and now he's at Student Health Services with, like, a megavirus.”

“Can I talk to him?” Jim asked. Rob dialed George's number and put it on speaker.

“Hgnnhh?”

“G, Jim's here, you wanna talk to him? You wanna go on video?” Rob asked. 

“Nooo, I'm DISGUSTING!” George sounded young, and wrecked. Jim pictured him laying ensconced amongst the pillows, wasting away like the heroine of a Victorian romance. If he thought he looked 'disgusting', in reality he probably looked only slightly less than perfect. 

“How are you feeling?” Jim asked gently. 

“Want to sleep but I can't. Concussion. I wanna _go back to my room and sleep in my own bed_.”

“I'm sure they'll clear you for that soon enough,” Jim said. “Do you think it was the food we ate?”

“No, the nurse said it's going around campus and I'm _probably contagious_ ,” George whined.

“I'm sending Rob back with all sorts of good things for sick boys, okay? And I'll call you again later.”

“Okay, Daddy,” George mumbled happily. When they hung up, Rob raised his eyebrows. 

“He's delirious,” Jim explained. And George probably was. But he felt all warm, hearing George call him that. He wanted to be Daddy for George, if that's what George wanted too. Maybe it was something they both needed. Jim and Rob ducked into a Stop'n Shop for ginger ale, saltines, Jello, cans of chicken soup and a teddy bear holding Get Well Soon balloons. Jim paid for all of it, because who did Rob think he was, trying to put in his own money? This was for George and George didn't pay for anything where Jim was concerned. 

“Jo Malone has their own store on Newbury,” Rob suggested. Unlike George, he showed zero hesitation asking for things, but since it was for his friend, it was actually a remarkably generous gesture. 

“Good. Let's do that. I don't want to set foot in the mall if I don't have to.”

Rob was right about the cologne, it was amazing and it would forever remind Jim of his first date with George on the harbor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This is the cologne Jim buys for George](https://www.sephora.com/product/wood-sage-sea-salt-cologne-P417179?skuId=1946540&icid2=products%20grid:p417179) (it's categorized as a woman's scent but many men reviewed it saying "this smells awesome... _on me_." It's totally unisex.  
> [Jim's cologne](https://www.sephora.com/product/vert-des-bois-P413161?icid2=you%20may%20also%20like:p413161:product) (it isn't quite what I was trying to reference in the earlier chapter, but I decided to go with it because it works just as well)  
> [The Omni Parker House](https://www.omnihotels.com/hotels/boston-parker-house). According to their website, you can order their Cream Pies delivered anywhere in the country. I chose not to have them stay overnight there, since when looking at pictures of the bedrooms, I didn't find them as appealing as the Harbor Hotel (the last thing I, personally, want in a hotel room is a pedestal sink and the idea of two people trying to share one? Ehhh). 
> 
> I wanted to post this on the date of King James's death on March 25th, but I'm too slow of a writer
> 
> Thank you to Sunlight_in_Winter for beta reading Chapters 13 and 14


	14. Sugar pt 5/5  (KJ/GV  modern AU,  daddy kink, spanking, subdrop,  polyamory )

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George panics about money, and spends the night at Jim's house, where they finally do a Real Scene. Painful secrets are revealed on both sides. See notes for additional warnings

_She knew she had a problem_  
She thought real love is real scary  
Money only pays the rent  
Love is forever that's all your life  
Love is heaven sent it's glamorous  
-Glamorous Life, Sheila E (written by Prince)

“The results of the background check are in,” Anne said. Jim and his wife were side by side in bed in their pajamas. She was reading a novel with a picture of a cornfield and a bloody shovel on the cover, and he was on his laptop. “I'll email them. What's up with the webpage with all the little stick figure men caning each other?” 

“I'm reading George's porn site. I mean, it's not his site, he doesn't run it. He said he likes it, so I'm trying to figure out some of his fantasies from the stories they host.”

“Anything good?” Anne asked. 

“Ehhh,” Jim said. “It's a multi-author site, hundreds of contributors, thousands of works, so the writing is hit or miss. They've got really good stories, and also stories so bad they're terrible even for porn, stories you wish you could get the two seconds you spent clicking on them, back. Stories so bad, you hope your browser doesn't freeze on that screen. They do have an excellent search and filter system though, which has definitely cut down on time wasting and the need for brain bleach. I'm looking for something we can _use_.”

“Jim, don't forget, it's not just scenarios he wants. You can come up with your own fantasies and ask him to play them out. It might be cathartic for you.”

Did she mean his unhappiness over their recent loss, or his anger at the abuse he'd suffered as a child? Maybe Jim had more of a latent urge to hit something than he'd been willing to acknowledge. And he'd been offered a chance to let go, with a beautiful, enthusiastically consenting adult who was a joy to spend time with. 

“I know, it's just that my favorite scenario so far is the one where a guy who looks _like that_ , lets me touch him. I don't play with these specific kinks all that often, although I've led him to believe I do. I think he might let me do whatever I want, so where do I start?” Jim thought uneasily about George's quasi- rape fantasy, and decided, for once, not to share that part with Anne. George might not actually realize that's what it was, but it took a lot of trust to share an idea like that with a lover and Jim wanted to respect that. 

“If you haven't found anything that turns you on yet, why are you still reading the stories?” Anne asked. 

“It's either this or read about the 2019 Methodist Apocalypse. At least bad porn is funny, and not a reminder that a more- than- 200- year-old denomination is ripping itself apart over whether people like me have the right to walk through their doors.” 

“You're not a Methodist.”

“Well, no, but they're such a backbone, a pillar, of the American Mainline world, and wouldn't it feel weird if we all woke up one day and Methodism as we know it didn't exist? It'd be like Toys R Us going out of business.”

“That would feel really weird,” Anne agreed. “Disconcerting. But I doubt it'll come to anything. These are the same people who can never decide if they want to be part of the Anglican Communion or not.”

“Technically, Wesley never did resign,” Jim said. “So they're really just weird, low church Anglicans.”

“Honey, are you or are you not, going to masturbate tonight? I need to know if I should go sleep in one of the guest rooms. Unless you want me to help you practice for your date...”

Jim closed his lap top, moving it to the nightstand, and folded up his reading glasses. 

“Never mind, it's not working out.” He had some stories bookmarked to return to later, ideas he could work with, but the truth was, he was having trouble treating George like the sort of casual fantasy you could have with your wife reading a Danish murder mystery next to you. Visiting the site had ended up as nothing more than a fact finding mission.

But during office hours a couple of days later, when nothing much was happening, he had a sudden spark of a daydream of George showing up, shifting his feet and looking at the floor, sadly confessing that he'd cheated on an exam. In this fantasy, George had got into Harvard. Jim was so proud of Fantasy!George. And of course, Jim had to put George over his knee for his unethical behavior. 

He'd had to cancel office hours and lock his door for a half an hour while he entertained the premise. He had more sudden, blush-worthy fantasies in the middle of his classes, and during lunch with Dr. Bacon. He _needed_ to see George again. 

Student Health Services had let George go back to his own room once they determined he was no longer contagious or likely to throw up as much. One sure sign George was getting better, he was bored. Bored, bored, BORED. During the parts of the day when he was awake, he had nothing to do but watch tv, and Youtube, and grope himself. He did try to do some of his coursework, he'd managed to finish his paper for his Shakespeare class, but he was sure the end result made zero sense. 

He also had time now to worry about the future, a problem he usually left for Future!George to deal with. He and Rob were considering moving in together after graduation, but after seeing what the current average rent was for a two bedroom pad, they had balked. 

Dorm life kept his bills low, and he'd been able to get away with not owning a car for the last four years, but they still had to live on ramen. The dance center was giving him all the teaching hours they could afford. But maybe with his newly-minted college degree, he could angle for a raise? Which would then get eaten up in train tickets or gas money, when he had to move out to the far- flung suburbs to sleep on a couch in a house with six other broke graduates. 

He might have to move back in with his mother. He'd have to leave his new life in Boston, and all his friends, and move back to a place full of his worst memories. His father and stepdad would complain about how much money had been wasted on his ballet when he'd ended up coming home without a job. He could always pay a visit to a certain director and remind him of what he knew, but George wanted to keep that as an absolute last resort. He could only play that card once and it was risky.

For the first time in a long time, he had a panic attack. He was still laying there, in the fetal position, covered in his pile of blankets, staring out the window, whimpering out loud but screaming internally, when Rob got back from his afternoon classes. 

“Are you jerking off _again_?” Rob asked. 

“No, I'm freaking out.”

“Because we're graduating in a semester and they'll kick us out of here. But we're totally broke and we don't have real jobs, and rent is over $1,000 a month for anything livable and convenient. And most people our age, unless they're born rich or they're way lucky or in certain types of careers, will never be able to retire or buy a house and we're always getting lectured to by old people who think not buying brand name macaroni and cheese will fix that but then they complain that we're not buying diamonds?”

“Um, duh,” George groaned. 

“You can always ask Jim for help.”

“I can't. Because...” George trailed off. A man who'd cheerfully dropped, like, a thousand dollars on him in a weekend couldn't be that hard to convince to pay the rent on a studio apartment. George would have to pay him back for it, but he was willing to do that. If anything, he'd learned on that date that his body and his talent in bed were worth something to Jim. He wanted it to be Jim. If he had to resort to being kept, Jim was a guy he already wanted to be with, someone he was falling in love with, just two people giving each other things they wanted to give each other anyway. It wasn't wrong to choose someone who could provide for you, especially if they met all your other needs. Anyway, it wasn't uncommon for dancers to have patrons, right? “You're right, I should bring it up with him.”

Jim probably didn't know anything about the price of boxed macaroni-and-cheese kits. He probably only ate the kind with the four different cheeses, heavy cream and herbed breadcrumbs, baked for an hour with a golden crust on top. Maybe it had lobster in it. And he didn't have to cook it himself, or clean up after, and his family sat at a dining table and ate it off china plates, with some French salad from the gourmet market. George's stomach growled. Rob laughed. 

“Want me to make you soup before I go?” 

First things first: George texted Jim, letting him know he was ready to sign the NDA. Jim texted back, letting George know the papers were being messengered over first thing in the morning and asking if he wanted to have dinner at Jim's house that weekend to celebrate. George sent back an enthusiastic string of emojis. 

Jim called him later, after Rob had left for his evening class and George had just taken his medication.

“Hey.”

“I just finished _Dream Boy_. Book and movie. How could you do that to me?” He was sniffling.

“Oh no, don't cry, didn't you like it?” George asked with concern. 

“It was good. I didn't expect the emotional sucker punch, that's all. It's more thoughtful than it seems at first. At the beginning, when the preacher is talking about Jesus and John, and then they call back to that at the end, Roy is crying in the barn and Nathan walks in-”Jim paused and George rushed to fill the space. 

“And we don't know if he's real or a ghost, but it's definitely an Easter story allusion. You know, I got it, but I didn't get it in the same way I do now, now that I know about the Privy Council Speech.”

“Because King James used that exact same reference to describe his love for Buckingham when he defended him to the world. Queer Christians have interpreted the relationship between Jesus and the Apostle John as romantic for almost as long as Christianity has existed. So, it has always left people wondering if that was a dog whistle to his queer Christian peers.”

“Those are fun words to say in a row.” George's medication was kicking in. 

“They are! For more than one reason. If I have a complaint, it's that I wish Nathan and Roy could've had a happy ending without the assault and possible murder. Couldn't they run off together with both of them unambiguously still alive?” 

“Yeah. I know how dangerous life still is for a lot of gay people but too many gay stories either end in tragedy, usually related to death by being gay, or one of the guys has like, a serious trauma in his past. It starts to make you feel like your gayness isn't authentic unless something bad happens, that you don't have a right to be happy. It's your lot in life, you have to pay for all of it somehow.”

Jim sighed before responding. 

“I always worried that I couldn't really be gay, because I'd never been sexually assaulted. My first time was perfectly consensual. Esme was older than me and from Quebec, so he was very French and romantic about it. I was...young...but not more so than the average person. The worst that happened was a lecture from my aunt and uncle about safety and age appropriate dating. My uncle took me aside later, bought me a beer as congratulations for becoming a man. Esme went back to Canada, so I never saw him again. It hurt because I thought I was in love, but I moved past it. Sort of. You never forget your first.”

“I guess I wish I could,” George replied. It just slipped out, he didn't mean to say it, he blamed it on the meds. 

“It was that bad, huh?” Jim asked. Desperate for male attention after his parents divorced, struggling with his sexuality, George had fallen quickly for handsome Shane Pearson. Shane was the thirty three year old director of an action movie his mother had earned a small supporting role in. George would hang around the set during his summer vacation, and he was offered a bit part on the same project, with two lines in order to earn his SAG card. With that, came a level of personal attention from the director that was out of proportion to his role in the script. Shane had been nice at first, but in a way George now recognized as _not being nice at all_. He knew what had happened was illegal, but it hadn't felt like abuse at the time, which made it all worse when he looked back on it. George hated the stupid, gullible kid he'd been, who had thought any of that was normal. He'd kept his partners at arms-length since, not that people wanted relationships out of their encounters with him anyway.

“He never took me anywhere special or too public, no real dates. Guess he didn't want other people knowing about me. But I was horny and I thought I had a boyfriend, so I'd do whatever he said, even if meant keeping quiet about seeing him and always showering after we fucked.” He had never hit George, aware of the potential market value of his pet, but there were other ways to be cruel. “He was scary, he held my head underwater in the pool because I was whining too much. It got weird, and I felt guilty, so I told Mom I was sleeping with him. I figured she'd yell at me for awhile, then fix it. Instead, she was happy, she said, 'Now I get to keep my job. I would've done it myself but you're more his type'. His type being under age boys.”

“Who look even younger than they really are,” Jim said. “Have I heard of this guy?”

“Yeah, I'm not saying who. His movies make big money and win all these awards. I can't tell Dad at all, he's an LAPD cop and he's homophobic, which is a _bad combination in the best of circumstances._ ”

Jim murmured his agreement. 

“My stepdad knows, because he walked in on us. He made me show him all our emails and pictures, and he wanted to sue the studio. But I settled, for less than I should've, and signed the NDA. I couldn't let him find out it was all Mom's idea.” He couldn't ruin their chance to return to a comfortable middle class, suburban life. He didn't want either of them to end up desperate enough to fall for another Shane. Mom retired from full time acting, and George used the settlement money to pay his tuition for a private performing arts high school and his first year of college. The money had run out three years ago.

“After what she did to you, you still protect her?” Jim asked.

“She's my mother.”

“I see your point,” Jim said. “When I was nineteen, the parole board asked me if I thought my mother had rehabilitated herself and I said yes. Odds were good she wasn't going to murder anyone else, but you never know. _She's Mum_ , though.” 

“I like your voice,” George said, eager to change the subject from his confession. “Read to me so I can sleep.”

“Okay, give me a sec.” A rustling of papers, silence for a moment, a series of worrying thumps, mumbling about having lost a book and then 'I'll just Google it', then Jim's voice came back over the line, soft and soothing.  
“ _Lay your sleeping head, my love,_  
Human on my faithless arm;  
Time and fevers burn away  
Individual beauty from  
Thoughtful children, and the grave  
Proves the child ephemeral:  
But in my arms till break of day  
Let the living creature lie,  
Mortal, guilty, but to me  
The entirely beautiful.”  


Jim sent the town car to pick him up on Friday. George clutched an overnight bag in his fist, staring through the window at the large, elegant homes and shady, well-manicured lawns of Wellesley. His mouth fell open as they turned down a private driveway set further back in the woods and emerged in front of a sprawling Tudor house trimmed with gray stone. It had long wings branching out from a central stone portico. The driveway circled around a patch of grass and shrubbery and through the portico, where the town car pulled to a stop. The driver got out, and opened George's door for him.

“Um, thanks.”

“Right this way, sir.” From this angle, George noticed that the front lawn had a three tiered stone fountain, dripping with icicles. A wreath with a faux cardinal in a nest, hung from the medieval style front door. George had expected the door to be opened by a uniformed butler like Mr. Carson on _Downton Abbey_ , but instead he found himself face to face with Jim. He wore casual jeans, loafers and a blue sweater, looking freshly showered and a bit shy. Jim tipped the driver and closed the door behind George. He glanced up and down George's form with barely concealed hunger. Jim ushered George forward, one hand resting against his lower back. George's stomach did a nervous little back flip. 

“I hoped you'd make it,” Jim said. “Everyone else has either retired early, gone home or gone out. Put your bag on that table by the stairs for now. And uh, leave your coat and gloves anywhere you feel like. ”

George glanced around the gigantic foyer. It was big enough that it seemed deliberately designed to hold large, formal parties, with a sweeping staircase draped in lighted evergreen garlands branching off in two directions at the far end. They'd made the foyer into an art gallery, exquisite oil paintings, watercolors and sculptures were displayed strategically throughout. There was a grand piano, and a weird little alcove with a fireplace and two benches, which didn't seem to have an everyday use except maybe as a place to put your snow boots on (so that's where George left his coat). A Christmas tree, half decorated in pink and gold, stood near the piano and someone had put a Nativity set on top of the piano lid. A large stag's head stared down at him from the top of the first stair landing. 

“Do you hunt?” George asked.

“It's one of my hobbies, yeah. Does that bother you? I noticed when we ordered food before, you never really went for the red meat.”

“That was only because I know this area's famous for seafood and I don't get to eat it that often. I'm not anti-hunting or a vegetarian, I just don't eat babies.”

“Okay, great,” Jim said. “I would have had to change up the menu for tonight otherwise, and the chef has already gone home. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches aren't as sexy or romantic. But to answer your first question, while I do hunt, that stag's head came with the house. Ninety-five percent of the trophies you'll see as decoration, came with the property.”

Jim led him down a hallway to a modestly sized dining area with a square table which could seat the family and a handful of friends. George saw an antique sideboard, and oil paintings of fruit and flowers. The blue silk curtains were drawn, and the lights dimmed, the table illuminated by white candles in glass holders. Jim pulled his chair out for him, and, taking a bowl of salad from the sideboard, placed it in the middle of the table. He left and returned with two plates, setting one down in front of George. 

Dinner was russet potatoes cut in chunks and sauteed in an herb sauce, and green beans, and juicy steaks, along with a robust red wine. George was starving for real food after more than a week of saltines, soup, Jello and vitamins. 

“Did you hunt this?” George asked, and immediately regretted opening his mouth. 

“No, I don't find cows very fun to hunt,” Jim replied. But he said it gently, he was joking, not implying he thought George was a male bimbo. 

“Right. They sort of stand there and stare at you.” George made a pushing gesture with his hands. “That's why you can tip them so easily.”

“I did help cook, though. I grilled the steaks, under Chef Michel's supervision. A man does have to know how to handle his meat.”

“I don't think you need lessons in that,” George said. 

“Are you feeling better? Better enough to play tonight?”

“Yeah. And Rob feels so guilty about dropping me on my head, he actually waited on me while I was sick. Oh, and the mall gave me a $50 gift card so I won't sue. Because they think I caught whatever it was, in the food court.”

“You didn't, you contracted it at school.”

“I _know_.” George grinned. Jim shook his head affectionately. 

“So, what are your plans for your final semester?”

“I have to work on my pieces for my final dance showcase. Companies might be in the audience and I could get a job out of it if I impress. I have to start trying harder to get jobs, no matter how the showcase goes. Guess there's always the Disney audition. That's like the Civil Service exam for theater people, but they want to see how well you can walk like Goofy.”

“You'd get picked as a face character for sure,” Jim said. “Who would hide you under a mask? Which piece are you thinking of using for the showcase?”

“I'm torn between _Narcissus_ , which is a fantastic male solo, and something more original and contemporary, to show off my knowledge of choreography and my ability to translate that into my own art. If I can get more dancers involved, I thought about using this-” He took out his phone, and pulled up 2Cellos cover of _Whole Lotta Love_. Jim bopped his head to the music. “Me and my dance partner, Kate, were talking about maybe doing a _pas de deux_ to _Purple Rain_ ”

“That sounds potentially amazing,” Jim said.

“It all depends on how much space they give me in the show. And the Cambridge Dance Center, where I teach, is producing an abridged stage version of _Labyrinth_ for the spring recital – the one with David Bowie, not the one about time traveling Cathars-”

“How much do I love that you made that reference,” Jim interrupted.

“I get to help with the choreography, and I play Jareth opposite one of our teen students as Sarah. There's a cloak made out of feathers and a fog machine.”

“I don't normally like going to other people's kids dance recitals but I feel like I need to see this one,” Jim said, biting into his steak.

“It's in April.” If they managed to stay together until spring. “Do you have a bathroom? I mean where is-”

“There's a powder room down the hall on the left.” Jim smiled, watching George rise from the table. On his way back, George detoured back to his overnight bag to get the Christmas present he'd spent so much time picking out and carefully wrapping for Jim, a hardback 19th century edition of the poetry of George Herbert. He'd also included the signed NDA and a typed out list of hard limits, in an envelope he'd sealed with a red Christmas bow.

“I'm going back to see my family for Christmas, so I thought I should give it to you now. I found it in one of those antiquarian bookshops in Cambridge.” 

“I love it,” Jim said. George thought his eyes might have misted, just a little. “This is lovely, thank you.” He pulled George in his lap for a cuddle, kissed his earlobe and the tiny Leo symbol dangling from it. “There's chocolate cherry lava cake for dessert, if you're not full.”

“That sounds great.”

“Baby, I'll have to get up if you want it. Why don't you look around the ground floor while I warm it up for us?” He gave George an experimental slap on the ass, George let out a wine induced snicker. But he let Jim get up, refilled his own wine glass, and wandered off to explore. 

A breakfast nook, and a formal parlor both branched off the foyer, with glass doors leading to a patio. Down a short hallway, near where he'd found the powder room earlier, George saw a much more formal dining room. It was considerably larger, ringed by huge windows, and had several smaller round tables instead of one square table, more like a restaurant than a private space. He found a classic library, with green damask walls, Tiffany lamps and floor to ceiling bookshelves filled with rare and first editions. A painting of lilies, which looked deceptively simple, even boring, was probably worth thousands. A taxidermy duck glared aggressively at him from the desk.

“Sorry, didn't think anyone was in here,” George said and patted its beak. An arched doorway led to a boring and modern office. Across the hall, he encountered a tasteful tan- and- cream family living room, with a large fireplace, a cushioned window seat and a flatscreen tv housed in an art frame. A set of stairs at the back of the room provided a way for the family to enter and leave this part of the house privately. A collection of silver frames on a table held photos, an elderly man grinning from a motorboat, a faded, out-of-date photo of a beautiful young woman and an equally handsome young man, and several pictures of happy auburn haired children and an attractive woman George assumed must be Jim's wife. He wondered if they still had sex, and what it was like. Were they kinky, or did Jim do those things especially for George? 

They had set up another Christmas tree in here, unlit but decorated with natural and homey ornaments (a lot of wood, pine cones, and moose in sweaters wearing skis), including ones clearly made by small children. A toy train track with a working train named _The Henry Express_ chugged its way around the base of the tree and through a miniature village. 

This was the room the family actually spent time in. Made even more obvious by the empty bag of Doritos on the coffee table. He threw it away for them, because _aesthetic_. 

He texted Rob.

_I'm drinking wine in a mansion_

No response. 

“Dessert is served,” Jim announced, poking his head around the frame of a doorway George hadn't noticed was there. 

“How did you- _where_ did you come from?”

“There's an old servant's passage behind the dining room, leading from the kitchen right to here. Come on. And take your trousers off.”

“Are you taking yours off?” George asked, obediently removing his jeans and padding down the main hallway after Jim in his socks. 

“No.” They sat back down to dessert, Jim fully clothed, George in nothing but a silk shirt and boxer briefs. He thought he'd feel ridiculous like that, but he got a look at himself in a mirror on the way to the dining room, and he looked elegantly vulnerable and _hot_. It emphasized the power imbalance between them. 

“This place was built in the 20s, right?” George asked. He lifted a piece of the cake on his fork, breathing in the sweet chocolate smell. 

“Good guess. 1928.”

“Mom likes to tour historic mansions,” George explained. “This style was trendy in the period, I don't know why, though.”

“Yeah, neither do I,” Jim said. “Maybe the William Morris craze wasn't over yet. We could look it up later. If you're feeling well enough to play, we should talk about what we're going to do.”

Jim had asked twice now, if he was ready to play. Jim must really want to, and since this had all been George's idea, he hated the idea of disappointing Jim, when they'd both waited for this. 

“Were you thinking of a real punishment, or something more silly and or erotic?” 

“I haven't done anything wrong lately,” George said slowly. “I did just write a terrible paper on _Hamlet._ Probably the worst my professor's ever seen. I was sick when I wrote it, though.”

“So, the academic laziness isn't quite your fault. Do you feel guilty about it?”

“Not-not really. Uh, we weren't even reading _Hamlet_ , we were reading _King John_ , so that sucks. But I want to be able to relax, and let some stuff out,” George said. “That's what I want. Something that's mostly for fun, but feels real.”

“I need to let some stuff out too,” Jim said quietly. “Do you want to decide when it stops, or do you want me to? Remember, you're still in control no matter what, you have a safeword. And don't be disappointed if you can't take as much as you hoped, characters in porn have more endurance than real people.”

And actors in videos got to stop and re-shoot. As much as George longed to be _punished hard_ , he had to admit Jim was right. He needed practice and experience, since he'd only ever had a handful of slaps on his ass.

“You decide. It's a punishment, right?”

“Remind me again what you're being punished for, George. Tell me all the details.” _You're the one who's really in charge here, weave a good scenario to get us percolating._

“I was, um, you saw me smoking with my friends at the bus stop.” George thought quickly, making up the details off the cuff. “I lied about it when you called me out. But, then you found the pack in my dance bag. You told me that you'd spank me if you ever caught me smoking.”

“Because I hate smoking and you know that,” Jim said. “I don't want you to get sick. I don't care if it's what all your friends do, you're better than that. I think you acted out because you need a bit of old fashioned discipline.”

“I know,” George said. He squirmed in his chair. _Yes, yes, yes._ “I'm really, really, _really_ sorry.” Jim ignored his plea. 

“You don't know what sorry is yet. And you won't, if you know what's good for you, run off while my back is turned and make me hunt you down. Trying to avoid this will just make it worse.”

George was a guy who could take a hint. As soon as Jim took their plates to the kitchen, George ran for the stairs. At the first landing, where the stairs divided in two directions, traveling up to a mezzanine, he chose a direction at random. He scampered silently across a carpeted hall, past closed doors and big windows. He heard footsteps on the stairs, and dove into a small alcove, it looked like a type of cloak room, containing dry cleaning and winter coats hanging on rods. George waited, heart pounding, arousal fluttering in his stomach. 

Jim tugged him out of the hiding place by his ear. 

“How did you know?” George squeaked.

“You run fast, and you make zero noise, you run on your toes like one of those elves from _Lord of the Rings_. But people have a tendency to head for higher ground when they're escaping, and they're more likely to turn right than left. Plus, this is my house, I know all the shortcuts. You didn't even know about the lift.” Jim dragged George by the ear over to a sitting area with a couple of antique couches and a coffee table. George didn't remotely try to fight him, it was choreography. He unceremoniously bent George over the back of the couch. 

“Elevators are _cheating,_ ” George protested. 

“What did I tell you about running off?”

“You said not to!” In a 'no clearly means yes' sense. 

“That's right. And what happens to bad boys who hide from their punishments?”

“They get it worse,” George admitted, shifting his feet like a restless little boy. 

“Your underwear hasn't done anything wrong, has it?” Jim asked. 

“No,” George replied, pouting. 

“So it needs to come down. Push your shorts down, please.” 

George complied, making it slow and throwing in some stripper-worthy saucy wiggling. Jim was definitely smothering a laugh. Jim cupped one cheek of George's ass, jiggling it a little. 

“You have a perfect little peach of a bum,” he observed. George was aware. You couldn't do like 80 million plies and squat thrusts in your lifetime and not both have a great ass _and_ know it. The position he was currently in showed it, and his long legs, off to the best advantage, too. He tried to relax in preparation for what was coming. It sounded counter intuitive, but he'd read that staying relaxed, accepting the pain, helped more than tensing up.

“Sometimes I think...it could be bigger. I work with guys who-” George mumbled. 

“It fits your shape, anything else would look ridiculous. I could write a poem about your arse. I'd call it, _I like proportional butts and I cannot lie._ ”

“Why would you lie about that? It seems like a normal thing to like.” 

Jim gave the cheek he'd been playing with, a light slap, for pretending not to get his old person early 90s reference. 

“You asked for this,” Jim said, “so don't put your hands back and try to block it and don't try to get up.”

 _He knew all the right lines to say_. George squealed internally, and squealed externally when the first real smack made contact. Jim started out light, and gradually increased the speed and force of the slaps, showing that he'd done his homework. George was surprised at how hard he could spank, he soon found himself grunting softly and wriggling around. Jim put a stop to that with a light hand resting on the small of his back. He was thorough, and it hurt so good that George was hard by the time Jim breathlessly ordered him to spread his cheeks. Jim had a whole new area to target, all up and down the inside of his ass cleft and smacking him directly on his hole, which George quickly decided, in his fog of lust, was the best thing ever. 

The pressure and the pleasure built to a place where he knew he was going to climax, and George panicked, afraid of getting it all over the couch fabric. He turned quickly, just as he shot off all over himself and Jim. He didn't care, the sensations were too overwhelmingly awesome. 

“Thought I told you to bend over,” Jim said calmly, like this sort of thing happened every day.

“I didn't wanna get it on-on the furniture!” George gasped, helplessly grappling with his spasming cock. How could Jim stand there so unaffected while George had _lost control of his entire body_? 

“That one's a fake. The real one's over by the window, we bought this to match it. It's from Jordan's.”

“Oh.” So it hadn't come cheap (from the perspective of normal broke college students), but it was easily replaceable from a chain furniture store. He was in trouble over nothing. George stared sheepishly at the mess he'd made of himself and Jim's shirt. 

“I'm definitely impressed,” Jim said after a moment. “But I have to punish you again for not listening. Go to the ensuite in the guest room, it's down at the end of the hall, and clean up. Pile pillows on the bed, drape a towel over them and bend over. Wait for me. Don't you dare move.”

In his hurry to obey, George stumbled over the underwear looped around his ankles. Jim steadied him. 

“Baby, wait. Step out of those. There we go.”

The guest room was impeccably decorated in tan-and-cream like the living room, with blue plaid throw pillows and matching trim on the bed skirt and curtains. All the linens and furniture were high quality, but it was impersonal. The paintings on the walls were of English cottages and moors, probably not nearly as valuable as the ones on public display, although they were calming, there was nothing special about them. A window with a cushioned window seat looked out on the forest below. The bathroom continued in the same color scheme, the soap was lavender scented. George cleaned himself up, put his shirt in the sink to soak and followed Jim's instructions to the letter. He lay there waiting, naked, exposed and shivering until he heard Jim's footsteps. He was barefoot this time, George turned his head to see that Jim had changed into dark blue silk pajamas, and he held a folded belt in his right hand. They didn't have all that much of a size difference, but at that moment, Jim looked so big and George felt so small. Jim had placed lube, condoms and a bottle of aloe vera on the dresser. 

“When I tell you to do something, I have a reason. Let me worry about the consequences. If you really can't follow the directions, either tell me before we start, or use your safeword. What if I was swinging an implement, you turned around without warning, and I hit you in the face by accident? When we're playing, if I tell you to stay put, you stay put, understand?”

George nodded, still too embarrassed about his screw up to speak. He lifted his ass toward the belt, again trying to keep his cheeks relaxed, and kept it up for the ten moderate lashes he'd earned. Ironically, it was too soon even for someone of his age and libido, to have another orgasm, it was just stinging pain over already sore cheeks. But for some reason, he had sunk down into a blissfully relaxed and trusting space, drifting away on the knowledge that he could let it all go, Jim would take care of him. He scrubbed at his watering eyes with the heels of his palms as he felt Jim's hand stroking over his trembling rear. 

“You did great. I'm proud of you.”

“But I didn't listen,” George protested, pawing uselessly at the tears. 

“We all make mistakes,” Jim murmured. “It's how we learn. You deserved the lesson and I'll give it to you every time you need it, but I know you can handle it.” He rose, and returned with the bottle of aloe. “Scoot over.” Jim rearranged the pillows, and their bodies, until they were curled up together on the bed. He squirted some aloe on his fingers, rubbing it carefully over the hot flesh. It was soothing, and comforting, although he knew Jim was hard by then, George forgot all about sex and drifted off to sleep before he could suck Jim off. 

When he woke up, sure that it had been hours but according to the clock it was only an hour later, he was alone and cold. George checked himself out in the mirror across from the bed, his ass was still red, but it looked worse than it felt. Jim had gone pretty easy on him for their first time. 

Jim had left the pajama pants, t shirt, fresh socks and hoodie that were in his overnight bag, folded up on the pillows next to George's head. George dressed. He gingerly pulled the pajama pants up over his whipped tail and limped to curl up in the window seat. He pressed one palm to the icy window. It was snowing, not heavily, but steadily, dusting the trees and garden. He felt like a character in some kinky fairy tale. His eyes stung, he let the tears fall and soon he was weeping for reasons he didn't understand, except that he felt bereft. He was as miserable as a dog whose owner had locked it out in the rain. 

“What's wrong?” Jim asked. He had two mugs and a plate of shortbread cookies, he set the plate on the window seat cushion and handed George one of the mugs. It was hot cocoa, with-and George cried harder- _a goddamn mini candy cane in it_. “Some people feel sensitive and overwhelmed after. It's normal. But I didn't mean to leave you, I thought you'd want a snack. And oh God, now you need tissues.”

He got George a box of actual Kleenex, not just a roll of toilet paper or a handful of napkins. The cookies were great, despite also tasting like his tears, they had little bits of toffee in them. 

“These are good,” George sniffled. 

“The kids made them. Is there anything you need to tell me? Is this because you didn't like our game after all? Or is it just a normal post endorphin crash? I've heard subdrop can happen suddenly and randomly. You might have gone home, and ended up having a meltdown in the middle of your dance class.”

Subdrop. George vaguely knew what that was, but he hadn't expected it would actually happen to him so easily. He couldn't believe _Jim_ could put him in this head space so quickly and easily. When he was sick, Rob had come home, and given him a weird look and said he'd called Jim 'Daddy' on the phone. George didn't remember doing that, and yet the idea felt totally natural. It was the word he'd started using in his fantasies of Jim. _Daddy_. 

“You said I'm not your property. What if-what if I want to be? When I think about it, my head just sort of...settles. Like, this is right, this is how it's supposed to be. ”

“It feels right, being with you,” Jim confessed. “When you called me 'Daddy', I knew I wanted to be that for you, your protector, provider, teacher. But, we need to be clear on how my lifestyle works. You understand I'm not, and never will be, monogamous?”

“Yeah, I know.” George kneaded his feet in their socks against Jim's thigh. 

“I won't ask you to be monogamous, either. The world is full of things to learn from all sorts of people and you're still young. All I ask is that you respect me and the lifestyle I'm funding for you. You'll conduct yourself as if your behavior reflects on me and if you don't, I'll punish you. I'm not normally all that big on rules in relationships, but it's different for you, because you told me that you want to be treated as my property, you feel more secure that way.”

“I do. I need boundaries, and a firm hand. I'm a human disaster.” How could he possibly be good enough for Jim otherwise? He couldn't follow a simple instruction like 'stay still'. 

“ You are _not_. And I hope we can do more playing than real punishment. We'll talk about the rules later, when your head is clear. Right now, I suspect you'd sign away your life to me.”

At that moment, he'd crawl naked through one of the Stuarts' fancy art gallery parties if Jim ordered him to. He'd do it plugged, covered in fresh cane marks and service the guests if Jim told him to. He imagined loving the attention he'd get as Jim's pretty pet so much it didn't feel humiliating at all. 

“It's not very woke of us. My friends would say love is a democracy, and we're being regressive and heterosexist, and we're conforming to the worst old school stereotypes of gay men.” George's friends would never understand what he'd found in Jim or what he needed. 

Jim stroked his hair. 

“No leather daddies here, just regular daddies. ...Can't believe I just said that. You don't have to be woke, in bed with me, here in this house. You don't have to be anything other people want you to be, not what your parents want, not what your friends think you should want. You only have to be my Georgie.”

"I want to feel you inside me." George pushed his pajama pants down, he was bare underneath, since he'd worried about underwear feeling too rough on his skin. Jim's hardness was returning, he'd be at full mast by the time they finished prepping George, which they did quickly but carefully, George's legs open in Jim's lap. "I liked that time when you sort of just bent me over, can we do that again?" 

"Anything for the man I love," Jim said, steering him gently back to the bed. George flushed.

"You do?"

"Are you surprised?" Jim asked, slowly breaching him with a hand on George's hip.

"I don't know," he replied honestly, and made a little "unh" noise at the presence of the other man, feeling himself give way. Jim's response was to ride him mercilessly and make sure he came hard for a second time that night. Although Jim held him all night, George woke up alone again in the morning. 

Rob had finally replied to his text with

_Fuck you_

He smelled delicious breakfast things and he headed downstairs in his pajama pants and hoodie to investigate. No one was in the breakfast nook, but the bar contained a box of pastries, a glass dispenser filled with boring, healthy cereal, one warming tray of scrambled eggs and one of sausage links. Orange juice, creamer and sugar were waiting on the table. Still moving a little stiffly, George made up a plate for himself of eggs and sausage. He set it on the table, and moved over to the Keurig to start brewing coffee for himself and Jim. 

“Hi?” A soft voice said from behind him. George turned around, and encountered a frail boy around thirteen or fourteen, in boxers and a t shirt advertising the 90s alt-rock band _Lord Ponytail and the Death Horse._ He must be Jim's son. 

“Hi, I'm George, I'm friends with your dad.” The kid had a limp, nervous handshake. 

“Ch-Chaz.” He moved past George to quietly fill his own plate, and he sat down and poured himself juice before speaking up again. “Are you his boyf-friend? He only brings them home when he's s-serious? A-and you left your jeans on the living room f-floor last night and your underwear in the hall.”

“Yeah. We're basically going out.” He was going to brazen his way through this encounter, now that he was having it. 

“Oh. You're really pretty.”

“Thanks.” George realized too late, he'd walked right into that one. 

“So, you think you're really pretty?” Chaz said, shooting him a small, mischievous smile. They both giggled, ice broken, atmosphere lightened. The red haired woman from the photographs entered, in Lululemons, ready for a weekend yoga class. She was in her early forties, and still well preserved. He wanted to avoid Jim's wife while he still probably smelled like sex with her husband, so he stayed at the far end of the table.

“Charles, don't forget to put your laundry in the hallway for the maid, or I'll come in there and do it myself.” She mumbled irritably in a foreign language. 

“Cheese Danish,” Chaz said, or something that sounded like that, his mouth was full. 

“No, thanks, this is enough for me,” replied George, who still hadn't finished waking up. 

“You must be the famous George,” Mrs. Stuart said pleasantly. “Don't worry about it, dear, I'm European, we're not uptight about these things. Call me Anne.”

“Jim sort of explained the situation,” George said. “I'm not out to get in your way.”

“We're glad he's met you, I haven't seen him this happy in awhile.” But she wore what George interpreted as the tight smile of someone who was not in the mood to deal with this. These people could not possibly be as happy to see him as they claimed. Poly and European or not, she'd just woken up to find her husband's college aged date helping himself to their food. No amount of spa trips, facials and workouts would stop her husband's head from turning toward young male lovers. Nor did it change that she had agreed to this arrangement and now had to pretend she was okay with it. And George had hoped to have a morning alone with Jim, talking, fooling around, and not immediately have to face his wife and son while wearing a hoodie that said 'Queen of Fucking Everything' on the front. 

Jim was still in his pjs too, when he finally wandered in. He kissed his wife on the cheek, and kissed George exactly the same way as George handed him the mug of coffee. But George also got a discreet little hug and ass-grab. Jim sipped appreciatively at the coffee. 

“You noticed how I like it.”

“Duh,” George said and blushed. Not only was he still just waking up, he was also still feeling pretty submissive. He wondered when that would fade. If it did, would he be mortified at the fantasies he'd had, the things he'd blurted out, the promises he'd made? 

“Why don't you boys get dressed, and Charles can show you the game room?”

“Sounds fun.” George showered, dressed and met Chaz in the living room a half hour later. George noticed on his second look through the photos on the table, that there were three kids, not two. Two boys, one girl. 

“That's Lizzie,” Chaz volunteered. “She just went off to college. And that's my big brother Henry, he was around your age. He passed away a couple of years ago fr-from cancer. He was about to go to MIT to study engineering.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.” Huh. Jim had never once mentioned his recent loss of a child. “I bet you, like, miss him a lot.”

“Yeah. He always had time for me.” _And now, no one does_ , was the unspoken rest of that statement. “He left me some of his collections, coins and baseball cards and all his m-model boats. Uh, do you play pool?”

“I can,” George said. He was great at it, but you never started out a game of pool by telling the truth. He followed Chaz to the remodeled garage which served as the game room. It was decorated in keeping with the rest of the house, and had an elaborate gaming system, ping pong table, and a wet bar off to the side. It turned out Chaz was a fun kid once he had the chance to relax and forget about his nerves, and they spent forty five minutes goofing off around the pool table before Jim found them.

Jim drew him aside.

“About that paper. If you can find some common themes, you might be able to fake like you were talking about _King John_ the whole time.”

“Like, what type of common themes though?” George asked. 

“Evil uncles?” Jim suggested. “Anyway, if you want to stay the whole weekend...I can help you.” 

“Wish I could, but my flight for home leaves tonight. If it doesn't get canceled.”

“Do you need anything? How about an upgrade?” Jim was already pulling out his phone in preparation to change George's seat to first class. George happily supplied the information which would let him. 

“I didn't know about how you lost your son,” George said softly. 

“I don't owe you stories about my grief.” Said with the bravado of someone who had been taught that talking about grief was a weakness. He wondered if the family was dealing with it at all, or if the Stuarts were now three people wandering around trapped in their own spheres of pain and loneliness, pretending everything was just fine. 

“I know, it's private. But you gotta let me take care of you, too.” George wrapped his arms around him carefully from behind. “I know I'm not on your intellectual level, and I don't have any money, but I give good hugs, and other stuff, right?”

“And other stuff.” Jim finally smiled again. “Comfort is a two way street, I guess. Listen, George-”

“Yeah?”

“What we're thinking of doing, it's a big step. So, I want you to think about it over the break. If you really do want this, you can move in after graduation. Anne agrees, I'll talk to her about whether you can have the pool house. We'll get you set up with an allowance, and have a longer discussion about the rules. And if you change your mind, no hard feelings, I won't bother you again. ”

 _You're not bothering me, you were never bothering me_ George ached to tell him. Jim rummaged in a drawer of an end table, pulling out a black marker. He pushed George's sleeve back, and carefully scrawled _Property of James Stuart_ on the underside of George's arm. 

“It's washable, in case you change your mind.”

By the time he stepped off the plane and breathed warm, suburban California air, it read more like _Probty Jams Start_ , but just knowing it was there kept George calm in the face of his relatives. 

The sermon at Christ Church, Cambridge on Christmas morning was titled _A Season of Universal Love and Hope_. Jim sang _Adeste Fideles_ in harmony with his colleagues and their families while snow began to drift down outside. For at least as long as the service lasted, he was able to take comfort in his faith and its centuries of tradition. 

He couldn't get out of there fast enough after the closing hymns and prayers. He thought he might walk in the park for a few minutes, through that one with all the fairy lights on the trees, while his family was socializing. But Anne caught his arm as he tried to sneak off. 

“Jim, we need to get out of the city and on the highway before this gets worse or we won't make it to Maine.”After the service, they were heading north to see Uncle James and his girlfriend Carol, for a traditional dinner at the Kennebunkport house. They would eat a pudding, and pop crackers, and take their annual group photo for the family Christmas card. Uncle James would get drunk while they relaxed around the fire, and he'd tell Scottish ghost stories with the waves crashing on the beach. 

“Dad, it's literally snowing,” Charles said anxiously. "I don't want to us to _actually_ turn into the Chosen F-frozen."

“Thank you for using 'literally' correctly,” Jim replied. “Guys, give me a few minutes, okay?”

“We don't have _time_ ,” Anne snapped. He was forced to agree (Charles shouldn't be out in this weather for longer than he had to, he'd caught pneumonia last year), and he endured the trip, which was a little over three hours with holiday traffic on the interstate, by pointedly taking a nap.

“Why's Dad upset?” he heard Charles ask finally as they crossed the border from New Hampshire into Maine. Memorial Bridge and Portsmouth Harbor were enchanting in the snowfall. Or they would be if Jim had been awake to see it, which he wasn't. Definitely still sleeping. “Did I make him mad?”

“He misses George a lot, Sweetie,” Anne said. 

“Why doesn't he f-follow him on Instagram? His account is GeorgeVilliers97 and it's r-really good.”

“It's more complicated than that, they want to share a bed.”

“But if George was here, he'd have to bunk with me,” Charles pointed out. “Or you'd have to stay in Lizzie's room. Or you'd take my room and I'd stay at Uncle James's for the week. Or I could sleep on the couch or Dad and George would have to get a hotel room.”

“We'd put George up in the guest room above the boat house,” Anne said. “Remember, we made it into a little apartment so Henry could have his own space?”

“Right, I f-forgot,” Charles murmured. 

They'd all forgotten their preparations for Henry's impending adulthood, which was never quite reached. 

After the long dinner, Jim slipped out to the back porch. He stood there, freezing in his Christmas sweater, trying to breathe through badly suppressed tears. He needed George, he couldn't bear another loss, he just couldn't do it. Bratty, independent, opinionated, yet happily submissive in the right context, and eager for Jim to guide him through exploring his masochism, George was everything he'd never known he wanted. And God would not let him have this. Jim stared out at the swells splashing over the black rocks and the chunks of ice they were tossing around. 

Hadn't he paid his price already? 

The sliding door scraped along its base, Uncle James's wheelchair buzzed as he approached and handed Jim a bottle of local winter brew. 

“Crying over a boy again, huh?”

“I didn't realize I'd miss him so much. He's in California with his family, what if he comes back after the break and doesn't want me?”

“They are fickle at that age. Have ye considered dating someone your own age?” Uncle James asked. He was one to talk, Carol was a nubile seventy two to Uncle James's eighty four.

“Not helpful.” Jim frowned at him. “It's like all I do lately is lose. Did you know Anne's in therapy for depression?”

“Everyone knew that except ye,” Uncle James said. He took an innocent swig of his beer. 

“Really?” 

“If ye hadn't been taking her for granted, ye would've noticed. Don't get a big head, it's only half your fault or even about ye. But ye could've made it easier on her. An' if it's not working, _let each other go._ ”

“I've been an arse to everyone.” It was all suddenly so simple. “No wonder I'm afraid things won't work out with George. You get back what you put out in the world. I can have him, but only if I stop using him as a crutch to avoid my family. My price is to give them _both_ what they need.”

“Listen, ye're rich, educated, respected, handsome, and a damn good person. If the laddie's nae impressed with that, he's touched in the head and not worth it.” Uncle James wheeled himself back toward the door. He pressed the button to make it slide open automatically, which had been one of Henry's inventions. “So, if ye wannae sulk, go ahead, but don't ruin the holiday for the kiddies. And give your wife something special for Christmas, if ye ken what I mean.” He waggled his eyebrows lewdly.

Jim's publisher had made him get an Instagram, as well as a Twitter and a public Facebook to go along with his Patheos blog. Although the internet was a bit spotty out on the porch, especially in this weather, Jim was able to bring up Instagram. With fingers stiff from the cold, he typed “GeorgeVilliers97” in the search box. He was rewarded with a colorful page featuring hundreds of photos of George, as many as he could want, a _feast_. The latest entry was from yesterday, featuring George in mirrored sunglasses, drinking a margarita from the deck of a restaurant like he was in an ad for the place. He didn't care if it was slightly Off Brand, and sharp eyed followers might find it controversial, Jim shyly clicked the blue Follow button. 

That done, Jim headed back inside to sit by the fire with his wife and children. Charles wanted to watch _A Child's Christmas in Wales_ like they always did. It was already playing the opening scenes when Jim joined them. 

Monday morning dawned with an alert telling Jim he had a private message from GeorgeVilliers97.

_“Daddy, I love you and I miss you and I want to come home.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Other warnings: Mentions of violence against children, underage sex, death of child from cancer
> 
> A Storm of Possibly Unnecessary Footnotes
> 
> May 16th is the anniversary of George Villiers's wedding to Katherine Manners. Just barely squeaked this fic under the finish line. But they might not get married in this modern AU, since they're no reason why they'd ever have to, and might just stay FWB if that. 
> 
> They all live in a different world now, and that changes so many things. Mary Stuart is never executed because the UK had abolished the death penalty by the 1960s. Moray was able to get custody of his nephew because, since Jim is not a prince or king in this 'verse, there was no logical reason why a court would side with foster parents over him, and Moray was not at risk of having to start an actual war to get his nephew back. The modern, non royal AU obviously shifts Jim and Anne's relationship a little too. I think living in a world with better healthcare/education/justice/religious tolerance/women's rights, and therapy, as well as lower stakes (the fate of nations doesn't depend on any of them) would change the decisions all of these people make, for the better. 
> 
> Or, maybe not, but this is the version I want to write. 
> 
> Jim's job and its location means it's not that difficult for him to be a modern thinking, tolerant guy and still be considered the most conservative out of his colleagues. George is...I think there's stuff he still isn't telling us, but he's going to live out his life happily remaining in fields he's qualified to be in, so no one will ever die because of him. Both guys are products of post 1970s queer culture.
> 
> You can learn more about the real Henry Stuart [here](http://www.andreazuvich.com/history/the-golden-boy-of-the-jacobean-age-a-guest-post-by-sarah-fraser/)
> 
> [2Cellos, Whole Lotta Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x8yymm3DtVA)
> 
> [The poem Jim reads to George](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/lullaby-0)
> 
> Here's the exterior of the house [the Stuarts live in](https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/99-Westcliff-Rd-Weston-MA-02493/80863806_zpid/). It's actually in Weston, MA, but it was too good to resist using. I used poetic license and took inspiration for some of the interior rooms from other houses. 
> 
> I took some liberties with [Lesley University's dance program. ](https://lesley.edu/life-at-lesley/campus-life) I needed George studying at a school which would give him a realistic fighting chance at actually running into Jim (although I suppose there were other ways around that). But I wanted George to be a classical dancer because A) he's a diva and B) Ballet evolved out of 16th and 17th century courtly dancing and court masques, which Buckingham loved and excelled at. And I wanted to give the characters AU careers that their historical versions might've been happy in (James said if he was not a king, he would have "been an Oxford man", so now he's a professor in the Harvard Divinity School). If you're interested, Charles makes [ quite a success out of the little art gallery](https://www.royalacademy.org.uk/exhibition/charles-i-king-and-collector%20), turning it into a popular destination (and he's also a talented photographer, his Instagram photos of George are a boon to both their careers). 
> 
> I thought [this photo shoot of Adelaide Kane](https://adelaidearchive.tumblr.com/post/171529310002) was so perfectly the Sugar version of 1970s!Mary Stuart just before her trial and conviction for murder (aka the last picture Jim probably has of his mother)


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